The Legacy
by TheEmperor
Summary: The adventures of Tavington after the Revolutionary War. He discovers a dark secret, travels to India, and meets his greatest enemy. FINISHED
1. A Child of the Blood, part I

Tavington Chapter One: A Child of the Blood, part I  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is my first fanfic for fanfiction.net. Basically, I'm a big Tavington fan. I've written lots of stories about him but this is the first one I'm submitting. It's not finished yet. This is just chapter one. Don't worry, there's more coming soon.  
  
Basically, I wanted to write about Tavington's past, present, and (disturbingly enough) his future.  
  
ATTENTION READERS: If you like this fic, write fics yourself, or are a fan of The Patriot, the Revolutionary War, or Dragoons in general. Then please come and check out the first BRITISH DRAGOON MESSAGE BOARD RPG! Everyone is welcome to apply to become part of the game. http://pub34.ezboard.com/bthenewlegionrpg  
  
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of the characters from The Patriot, all of the other characters in this story are (to the best of my knowledge) original creations.  
  
"Alive! Of course he's alive. Did you think a little something like that could kill someone like him?"  
  
He knew that voice; time couldn't erase memories of a voice like that. It was brash, good-natured, common, but there was something about it. It was a voice with an edge like a well sharpened saber. It was a voice with deadly intent.  
  
"And don't ask me what I'm doing here or how I got here. It'll get back to that Thompson fellow somehow. Then I'll never be rid of him."  
  
"Yes, m'lord."  
  
"Why the Parliament doesn't go about exterminating cockneys is beyond my imagination. They multiply like rabbits. That Thompson came from a brood of thirteen. Thirteen! Can you imagine that? And the mother was drunk the whole time."  
  
"Yes, m'lord."  
  
"Oh, stop saying 'yes, m'lord' already. I'm retired. I don't go about in a red jacket anymore. Do I?"  
  
"No, m. I mean, no, sir."  
  
Col. William Tavington struggled against the effects of the laudanum. He hated the drug. The pain in his neck was better than dulled senses. He could have ignored any other voice. Captain Wilkins? Lord Cornwallis? What did they matter? This voice, however, belonged to someone who did.  
  
"It's yours," Dr. Moorville said in his distinctive voice, smiling. "It does my heart good to see it back where it should be, in the hands of a rightful heir, a child of the blood."  
  
"Honestly, hasn't the poor thing been through enough already?" Morganna Tavington exclaimed with great exasperation. "His dear mother dead all these years and his father only just yesterday buried. And now you want to take him away to God only knows where and train him to be one of those horrid dragoons."  
  
"We're not horrid," Mooreville replied in a hopeless attempt to pacify the outraged woman. "You only say that because you still hate your father. He was a great man you know."  
  
William Tavington XIII, age nine, stared at the silver pendant dangling from Mooreville's clenched fist. He liked it very much indeed, and was quite disappointed by the fact that his Aunt seemed to be doing everything she could to keep it from becoming his. Why was she so angry anyway? And what in the world was a dragoon?  
  
"Oh, everyone tells me my father was a great man. They didn't know him like I did. No one can rightfully judge my father except his own children. No one. Not even you. I don't care how many times he came to the aid of his king or his country, he was still horrid. That's the only word that can describe him. My brother may have been a fool and a drunkard, but, at least, he had enough sense to stay away from you and your horrid ways."  
  
Mooreville ran a hand through his shiny silver hair. He was barely forty, but already gray. His hair was a perfect match for the pendant he held, a pendant in the shape of a silver dragon.  
  
"We didn't want your brother. Your brother didn't have the talent."  
  
"There is no such thing as the talent," Morganna stated matter-of-factly. She turned and grabbed young William by the wrist. Her dark blue skirts stirred up dust from the long neglected floor of the library.  
  
Mooreville reached into one of the pockets on his red jacket with green trim, pulled out a box, and replaced the dragon pendant inside.  
  
"There is. You just refuse to believe it."  
  
Morganna scrunched up her face defiantly. She was twenty-eight but looked like a sixty year-old matron. Her expression of defiance wasn't a pretty sight.  
  
"I think we've had quite enough of your ramblings for today, Mr. Mooreville. I would show you to the door, but I believe you know the way. You should have no trouble showing yourself out."  
  
"Very well, madam," he bowed quite low, turned, left the library.  
  
Alone now, Morganna focused her attention on the child whose wrist she was still holding. Those eyes.  
  
"What's the talent?" he asked.  
  
The question startled Morganna. She had so hoped he wouldn't ask that she hadn't bothered to prepare a reasonable reply.  
  
"Nothing you need concern yourself with, child."  
  
Young William was not so easily discouraged, a trait he shared with his twenty-eight year-old matron of an aunt.  
  
"Tell me, Aunt Morganna."  
  
For the first of innumerable times in their relationship Morganna Tavington's pleasant personality gave way to her own inner darkness.  
  
"You are never to ask me about that again," she stated darkly. "You will never ask me again. Do you understand?"  
  
William didn't say anything.  
  
When the headmistress of St. Agnes' Academy for the Training and Refinement of Young Ladies (Tavington had always thought it an altogether too long name) finally passed away after losing a long battle with consumption the last person anyone had expected to replace her was Morganna Tavington. First of all, she wasn't even a noblewoman. She was simply the daughter of a minor officer in the king's service. Secondly, she was a prime example of the inherent flaws that were common to those with Tavington blood. She was dark and severe, unwilling to put up with any sort of foolishness, quick to anger, and possessed a certain dignity quite unnatural to members of her social class.  
  
Though most still argued that the position of headmistress should have been given to Lady Margaret Worthington, the senior member of staff, no one could disagree with the fact that Morganna was an efficient manager of people. The girls were always on time for meals, classes, and church. They were clean, neat, respectful, and spoke perfect English. These were the things that Morganna demanded from them, and everyone had seen her fiery temper flair enough to know that they didn't want to disappoint her.  
  
Everyone knew that Morganna's father had left her a rather substantial inheritance, most likely all he had managed to save during his decades in the army, but the headmistress absolutely refused to touch it. She preferred to dress in plain clothes that she had sewn herself, her dresses were either gray, navy, or black.  
  
"Money is the root of all evil," Morganna often reminded her students. She often reminded members of the staff of this as well, but with them she often added. "I would know. My father was certainly evil."  
  
"Dreadful man," Morganna remarked more to herself than to her young nephew she was half-leading half-dragging up the stairs. Morganna tended to do everything quickly, climbing stairs was no exception.  
  
William was by no means an idle child he simply couldn't help but stare. He was accustomed to the house of his drunken father, pools of ale on the floor, broken glass, smoke, cards scattered about. Compared to that, St. Agnes' Academy for the Training and Refinement of Young Ladies could have been Buckingham Palace.  
  
"Come along boy!" Morganna snapped, giving his arm a painful tug. "You act as though you've never been inside a house before. It isn't polite to stare, you know."  
  
William did know, only he had always assumed that it was impolite to stare at people. It wasn't like chairs, tables, and windows cared if you stared at them.  
  
They turned off the stairs and into a long hallway lined with numerous doors. Some of the doors were marked with names, others with numbers.  
  
"Dreadful, dreadful," Morganna continued. "Father's dead. Why can't they leave me in peace? It isn't as though I believe in any of their tomfoolery."  
  
They came to a set of large double doors. Morganna reached for one of the French handles and flung the door inward. This was another of her very unladylike qualities. She had never been gentle, neither with people nor with things.  
  
The room beyond the doors was quite large. The ceiling was tall, and massive windows let in shafts of golden light. In thirty or so chairs arranged in a crude semi-circle were seated the students of St. Agnes'. They were all daughters of noble families, prim and proper, dressed in fashionable new dresses. The teachers and other members of staff stood behind the rows of girls, all wearing their sternest expressions.  
  
Morganna shoved William into the room, in full view of the students and staff. He felt oddly self-conscious, though he didn't know that was how he felt at the time. Up until then he never had a need to feel that way. What did it matter how you looked when your father only bothered to look at you when he was about to hit you?  
  
"May I present my nephew, my late oldest brother's son, William Tavington XIII." 


	2. A Child of the Blood, part II

Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Two "A Child of the Blood, part II"  
  
For several days he had existed in the state of something between sleeping and waking, and, in a strange sort of way, he was thankful. Though he detested the laudanum, the headaches it caused, and the fact that it made him more helpless than he already was (and there was nothing he hated quite so much as being helpless) it did permit his mind some sort of artificial peace. He didn't have to think and most of the time, he simply couldn't. He didn't have to dwell on his defeat at the hands of that colonial, Benjamin Martin.  
  
He awoke without knowing that he had drifted once again into unconsciousness.  
  
"Well, I suppose I'm impressed," Mooreville remarked, his voice strained. He was standing at the window looking out over the South Carolina landscape. He watched the wounded soldiers coming and going. Most were heavily bandaged, some were missing limbs. It was a sea of white linen stained with blood. A scream wafted upwards from the tent where the surgeons were going about their bloody work. Mooreville winced. He had never gotten used to that sound. It would always remind him of the time he had been the one on the table.  
  
He wanted to shout every foul word he knew. Cornwallis was a fool. Didn't he know the sort of people he was dealing with? Dragoons were supposed to be invincible and over half of the sixty-six hereditary members were dead, some without heirs. The blood continued to thin.  
  
"Blame me if you want, my lord, but I would suggest, if I may, that Gen. Lord Cornwallis would be a more appropriate target for your anger."  
  
It was a long statement and it had required substantial effort. It hurt, but it was worth it. Tavington had been the object of Dr. Mooreville's anger often enough that he knew to avoid it if at all possible.  
  
Mooreville turned away from the window and limped over to the bedside. The old dragoon had lost his left leg fighting the French during the Seven Years War, something he seemed genuinely proud of at times. Mooreville was the sort of man who delighted in recounting his old war stories for anyone who was willing to listen. Years ago, Tavington had often found himself the unwilling audience for the old man's reenactments.  
  
"You shouldn't talk," Moorville knelt beside the bed and took Tavington's right hand. "You don't want to injure yourself further. Half of the original dragoons dead is bad enough. The last thing we want to lose is you."  
  
The old man stood back up and walked around to the left side of the bed. With the curiosity of a trained physician, which is what he had been before being called into the king's service, Mooreville pulled back the bandages and examined the wound in Tavington's left shoulder. It was almost the least of his injuries.  
  
Mooreville sucked in his breath sharply. "Surgeons don't even know how to remove bullets anymore. God, they make things worse. If they can make this much of a mess out of a simple bullet wound to the shoulder, then men who stub their toes must end up having their legs amputated." The doctor had a distinctive habit of always mentioning lost legs in any argument. "Still, I don't think you'll lose the arm. Just be thankful you're right handed." He replaced the bandages.  
  
Lose the arm! If Tavington had been physically capable of screaming he very well might have. Had the drugs dulled his senses that much? Losing that arm. He hadn't even considered it possible. He was Col. William Tavington, Green Dragoons, he didn't lose arms.  
  
"Well he certainly isn't much to look at," Lady Worthington remarked.  
  
She came up to the boy and began walking around him, circling, like a vulture determining if something was suitably dead and ready to eat. Lady Worthington not only acted like a vulture, she also resembled one. Her hair and eyes were coal black and she was wearing a dress to match. Above the dark eyes, black eyebrows arched upward. When combined with a long, pointed nose, a curved back, and sloping shoulders the similarity was so uncanny that many of the girls had taken to referring to her as 'Lady Vulture' behind her back.  
  
"I suppose not," Morganna admitted. "Though he does resemble my late father."  
  
"I wouldn't know," Lady Worthington replied coldly. "I never had the pleasure of meeting the man." She continued to circle. "He's much too thin. At least that means he won't eat too much. Our finances are in a desperate state, Morganna. You do know that?"  
  
Morganna nodded.  
  
"And this hair," Lady Worthington grabbed a few strands of William's dark hair and jerked it out, rather painfully. The boy gave her such a look of cold malice that the girls gasped. Morganna was painfully shocked. Lady Vulture was the only one who didn't notice. "Something really must be done about this hair. It's positively. filthy."  
  
William had never had any part of his person referred to as filthy before. His appearance was one of the few things he had taken pride in; it was the thing that made him better than his father. He might have been younger, but when his father was lying on the floor wearing nothing but a pair of pants stained with ale, William had been, in his personal opinion, superior.  
  
It was then that the hereditary Tavington sense of dignity, and the famous Tavington temper, first proved their presence in the young boy. He might have been many unpleasant things. He was an orphan, his disposition wasn't pleasant, and he might have kicked his father's dead body a few times when he found the old man lying dead on the floor, but he wasn't filthy, and he wasn't about to let an old woman who wasn't so clean herself tell everyone that he was.  
  
"My hair is most certainly not filthy!" he cried and then he slapped Lady Worthington.  
  
The moments immediately following this unexpected action played out in a most bizarre fashion. Lady Worthington stumbled backwards, both of her hands clutched the left side of her face. As William, Morganna, and the girls watched something dark began to drip from between Lady Worthington's fingers. She turned and fled the room, but no one saw her go, they were all staring at the drops of thick, red blood, slowly cooling on the floor. 


	3. Screams in the Late Afternoon

Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Three Screams in the Late Afternoon  
  
Morganna reacted quickly, seizing her nephew once more by the hand, and forcing him from the room, up several more flights of stairs, down a narrow, and finally into a very tiny room. It was in this room that Morganna left the offending child, but only after making certain that the door locked properly.  
  
William just stood there. His aunt was gone. He was locked in, but for several minutes he didn't even realize what had happened. He held up his right hand, and was horrified to find it covered in drying brown-red blood. Certainly he hadn't hit her that hard! He'd had enough experience with violent physical contact to know that it was nearly impossible to draw blood by slapping. This was bizarre, unnatural. Lady Worthington's face had been positively dripping and his hand and part of his sleeve were soaked in blood.  
  
He wanted the blood off his hand. Something in his mind demanded that the offending fluid be cleaned off immediately. A quick glance around the room served to inform the boy of how woefully unfurnished it was. There was a bed covered with a faded patchwork quilt, a small table with a candlestick (no candle), and an ancient, dirty tapestry covering the wall opposite the bed. Seeing as there wasn't a washbasin, he spat on his hand and wiped the blood off on the tapestry. It was so dirty already that William thought another stain would hardly be noticed.  
  
With the blood gone, and his natural shock worn off, his first instinct was to try the door. It was locked, but after a few minutes of twisting the knob this way and that the lock gave way with a loud click. This was the little used fourth floor of St. Agnes', and everything from the quilts to the locks had deteriorated with the passage of time.  
  
He opened the door about an inch and peered out into the hallway. Morganna was gone, and the only indication that she had ever been there were the dust moats hanging in the air, swirling about in an angry frenzy at being disturbed. Confident that he was alone, William stepped into the hallway. Besides the door he had recently "unlocked" there were three others. He tried them all, but found them to be locked, and far more stubborn than the first one.  
  
What to do? William selected a corner beneath the dirty window at the end of the hall and sat down on the hard, wooden floor. He wanted to think and had always found it easier to think when he wasn't locked in a very small room. What had happened to Lady Worthington? Try as he might, his young brain could not make any sense out of it.  
  
"There you are!"  
  
He looked up quickly. That voice had not belonged to Morganna. It was harsher, scratchier, and younger.  
  
Standing at the end of the hallway, at the very top of the stairs, was a scrawny-looking girl about his age. Stringy, black hair hung down to the small of her back in greasy curls. A healthy crop of freckles accented her small nose and pale cheeks. William would have assumed she was some sort of servant girl, a kitchen maid perhaps, but her grossly expensive dress identified her as one of Morganna's students.  
  
"Gawd! I've been looking all over for you. I figured she'd locked you in a room somewhere. That's what she does when we misbehave, locks us in our rooms. I never thought she's put you up here though. No one comes up here," she paused and then added with some reservation, "Except me."  
  
"She did lock me in a room," William bragged, pointing toward the open door.  
  
The girl walked to the open door and peered into the room. "Eh, getting out of there is nothing, especially since I softened the lock up a bit. I got locked in there once myself. That was before I managed to pinch Lady Vulture's key. I kicked the door a few times, that lock hasn't been the same since. Gawd! She gave you the boring room. The other rooms are full of interesting stuff."  
  
"What sort of stuff?" William asked.  
  
"I'll have to tell you later," the girl put her hands on her hips and assumed a very determined expression. "Right now you have to come with me. I figure that you're the only one who can shut her up. If you can, that'd be something. Once she starts bawling, no one can make her stop. But you're so scary that you might just be able to pull it off. All the other girls are deathly afraid of you. It's all they can talk about. Now, come on!"  
  
William had never appreciated feeling entirely uniformed. "Who are you talking about?"  
  
"Eleanor, of course! She the niece of the great Lord Cornwallis, and a spoiled brat to boot! Come on already, at this rate she's drive us all as mad as Lady Morganna's father!"  
  
Not wanting to spend the entire day sitting in about in the hallway, William decided to 'come along already.' The girl led the way down the stairs to the third floor. When they reached the landing they were greeted by such an awful wailing that even William's first instinct was to cover his ears.  
  
"See what I mean? That's Eleanor alright. Gawd! We have to put up with at least one of her fits a week."  
  
The third floor was comprised of a considerably wider hallway lined with considerably more doors. They followed the hallway, passing doors one through four until they came to a door marked simply with the number five. Many of the other doors lining the hall were opened just slightly, and many pairs of little girl eyes stared in terror at the young, male newcomer.  
  
"Well, this is Eleanor's room," there was a moment of silence while the black-haired girl listened to the awful noise. "Gawd! That sounds like a bad one." She turned and gave William a hearty pat on the back. "Good luck to you, and Godspeed!"  
  
William Tavington was not the sort to do kind things for others, even if those others were perfectly nice young ladies. On general principles, he never did anything that wasn't going to benefit him in some way or another. In being asked to deal with Eleanor, a golden opportunity had presented itself. He still didn't know what sort of punishment Morganna had in store for him, but if Eleanor's tantrums were that frequent and that offensive to the ears stopping one of them might slightly overshadow the incident involving Lady Worthington. Besides, there was nothing that offended him personally quite as much as someone who had everything being anything less than satisfied.  
  
He opened the door and strolled into the room with what he considered incomparable grace and dignity. Someone, probably the black-haired girl shut the door behind him. This was it, no way out unless he could do something about Eleanor.  
  
This room was very different from those on the fourth floor. Eleanor's room was practically dust free and tastefully furnished with a fire crackling angrily in the fireplace, obviously it too was offended by the noise. In the middle of the room was a giant four-poster bed, and in the middle of the bed there sat a pudgy little girl with tightly curled red hair and a nose turned up like a pig's snout. Her face was dark pink and her large mouth was opened quite wide to allow that awful wailing to escape from somewhere within.  
  
"Oh, will you shut up!" William shouted loudly so that Eleanor could hear him over her own shrieking.  
  
Her mouth shut automatically, her eyes widened. "Who are you?" she cried. "What are you doing in my room?"  
  
William knew that the best way of dealing with irrational people was to be blunt, and Eleanor had impressed him as a very irrational person.  
  
"The others sent me here to make you be quiet. They don't like you very much."  
  
A fresh wave of rage clouded Eleanor's face. "How dare you say such a thing!"  
  
"They don't like you," William repeated, "and I think I can understand why. I find your carrying on most offensive. In fact, I don't like you very much either."  
  
Despite her privileged upbringing and four years of formal education, Eleanor had always been a somewhat dull-witted girl. "Wait a minute! You're the boy from this morning, the one who nearly killed Lady Worthington!"  
  
Seizing his opportunity, William continued, "Yes, and if you don't stop," he paused for dramatic effect, "I'll do the same thing to you!" If it had been possible for Eleanor's eyes to open any wider, they most certainly would have. "You're going to burn half my face of?"  
  
This response startled the boy a bit. Burn half her face off? Certainly he hadn't done anything like that to Lady Worthington.  
  
* * *  
  
"I must speak with Lord Cornwallis," Dr. Mooreville sighed, "As much as I despise the man, it is why I had to travel to this Godforsaken 'New World.'"  
  
"I was wondering why you were here. Certainly it isn't to visit me, though I appreciate your stopping by."  
  
Mooreville laughed. "Don't fake courtesy with me William, I know you too well. You don't appreciate my being here. You're embarrassed enough about being defeated by a colonial without anyone else having to see you helpless."  
  
"Very well then, you're correct. I don't appreciate anyone seeing me like this, you in particular."  
  
Mooreville scratched his chin, which was in dire need of shaving. "Has she seen you like this?"  
  
"Would I let her?"  
  
"I wouldn't know. Your mind is a strange place, full of dark, twisted little passages."  
  
"Well I haven't. And she hasn't come here, at least to my knowledge."  
  
"And that knowledge has been severely impaired by opium."  
  
"She hasn't come. Kindly refrain from mentioning her again. ever."  
  
"Still angry?" Mooreville laughed. "Then again, when was the last time you weren't angry?" 


	4. Lord Cornwallis Eats Dinner

Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Four: "Cornwallis Eats Dinner"  
  
Gen. Lord Cornwallis was having dinner, undoubtedly his favorite pastime. He liked dinner. He liked the food, the way it was served, and the sort of polite conversations that the meal required. Dinner was a marvelous thing, no one was rude, or loud, or insulting, or impolite, and if they were, you could simply ask them to leave. However, on this particular day, dinner was perhaps a bit less amusing that usual. His ego was still aching from the blow it had received at the Battle of Cowpens, and O'Hara had locked himself in his room and refused to come out. This was weighing on the general's mind more than his own bruised ego. This was so unlike O'Hara, almost unnatural. The two of them had always gotten along splendidly. Certainly Gen. O'Hara hadn't lost faith in his ability to command. O'Hara couldn't become one of those supporting what Cornwallis affectionately referred to as the "Brutality Movement."  
  
The whole thing had begun with the recent defeat, though Cornwallis had sensed the undercurrent of dissatisfaction for some time now. There as a large faction among the troop who wanted to try their hand at beating the colonials at their own game.  
  
"Preposterous! Marching out of ranks, burning things down, terrorizing the citizens!" Cornwallis mumbled between bites of roast beef, "Absolutely, undoubtedly preposterous, but I will put a stop to it."  
  
"They were the reason we lost that battle," Cornwallis had explained to O'Hara.  
  
"You mean Tavington and his dragoons, sir?"  
  
"Of course I mean Tavington!" Cornwallis snapped. "If only he'd followed orders that never would have happened. I could have won that battle O'Hara, if only that man weren't so filthy ambitious!"  
  
"What do you intend to do about it, my lord?"  
  
"I intend to make him regret that he ever survived that battle. Col. Tavington will never see England again, I will see to that personally."  
  
* * *  
  
Dr. Mooreville made his was through Fort Carolina as silently as was possible for a man with one wooden leg. He passed many infantrymen and several officers, none of which took any notice of him. For this he was thankful, it was the nature of his position in the British Army to remain as entirely unspectacular as possible. He always dressed in the uniform of a common infantry lieutenant, having come to regard the traditional dragoon uniform as a bit too uncommon.  
  
On his way up the stairs, a rather slow process with one leg, Mooreville encountered one of the surviving dragoons. Corporal Smythe, a dark, slender youth, had stationed himself on the landing between the first and second floors. There he amused himself by taking note of all who came to see Gen. Lord Cornwallis. Seeing Mooreville, his already small eyes narrowed until they were no more than dark slits.  
  
"What are you doing here old man?" he spat.  
  
"Paying a visit to the Lord General," Mooreville answered with a smile, "not that it's any of your concern, dear Mr. Smythe."  
  
"Get on with you then."  
  
Mooreville stopped for a moment to lean against the railing and catch his breath. "I would speak with you later this evening."  
  
Smythe cocked an eyebrow. "I won't speak with you. You know that."  
  
"Very well," the doctor replied, and continued up the stairs.  
  
When he came to the second floor hall, before interrupting Lord Cornwallis' dinner, Mooreville knocked on the doors leading to the rooms of Gen. O'Hara. No answer.  
  
There were a great many things that Dr. Mooreville did not respect. Other's right to privacy was among them. He bent down and took a peek through the oversized key-hole. He was only somewhat surprised to find Gen. O'Hara standing in front of the mirror staring in absolute horror at the disgustingly discolored skin now covering his neck and left arm. Mooreville bit his bottom lip to prevent some very untimely laughter from escaping. Despite the somewhat somber mission he had been sent on, Mooreville was reminded of some of the happier days in his life, decades ago, when he had been younger, and Tavington's grandfather was still alive.  
  
They would have stood in that hallway together and laughed at poor Gen. O'Hara's misfortune until their eyes started watering and the pain in their sides became unbearable. A sense of humor had been William XI most endearing trait, and one of the reasons men had been willing to follow him to just about anywhere. It was too bad that the perfect balance of humor and cruelty wasn't inherited by his grandson. After all, William XI had always done such things to others as jokes, not as a means of revenge.  
  
Having satisfied his curiosity, Mooreville continued down the hallway to the rooms belonging to Lord Cornwallis. He let himself in without bothering to knock. Why should he be courteous to Lord Cornwallis anyway? He was the superior officer.  
  
Genuinely surprised by the abrupt and unannounced entrance, Lord Cornwallis dropped his spoon into the soup he had been tasting. Some of the soup sloshed over the rim of the bowl, staining the perfectly white tablecloth.  
  
"Mooreville!" he cried, "What in God's, or in your case the Devil's, name are you doing here?"  
  
"Peace, Lord Cornwallis," Mooreville sighed in his unique voice. He poured himself a glass of wine from a bottle resting on a near-bye table. "I did not mean to interrupt your dinner." He lied. "Go ahead and eat, and no, I don't care for any."  
  
Mooreville selected one of the more comfortable chairs and made himself at home. He sipped his wine and observed Lord Cornwallis as a slave trader might examine his goods, determining which ones were more likely to rebel against their new masters. The old general had not changed much in ten years. He was bit heavier perhaps, but that was about it.  
  
Despite the slight nervousness that had come over him upon Mooreville's arrival, Lord Cornwallis quickly resumed eating. "Have you been to see Col. Tavington?" he asked after several long minutes of uncomfortable silence.  
  
"I have." Mooreville poured more wine and continued. "Poor man, he has no idea how long he's been lying there. How much opium did you give him?"  
  
"I am not the surgeon. I wouldn't know."  
  
Mooreville smiled. It wasn't a pleasant sight. His face contorted into a chilling façade of devilish hatred. "Like hell you don't know! You're the one who gave the order. Laudanum isn't cheap stuff. No surgeon is right mind would waste so much on someone so grievously injured. It's too bad you didn't know enough about the drug to calculate a substantial overdose. It wouldn't have taken much more you know."  
  
Nearly too angry for words, Lord Cornwallis leapt to his feet. "How dare you accuse me of such a thing? Why that would be like murdering one of my own officers!"  
  
Mooreville's smile faded. "One of your officers who you were convinced the world, let alone the British Army, would be better off without."  
  
"I will not have you enter into my chamber unannounced and accuse me of attempted murder! I would do no such thing, not even to a man like Col. Tavington," he pointed toward the door. "Now, remove yourself from my presence!"  
  
Mooreville didn't budge. Cornwallis continued to stand, completely red in the face, pointing in the direction of the door. After a few moments, the Lord General inferred that his pose was beginning to look silly, so he stopped pointing.  
  
"GO!" he bellowed.  
  
"I'm afraid that you've forgotten who is the superior officer," Mooreville stated without emotion. "Kindly sit down, such outbursts cannot be good for your health." As dedicated as he was to the rules and traditions of the British Army, and seeing that Mooreville had not neglected to enforce his superiority, Cornwallis had no other option but to sit.  
  
"Now," Mooreville began, setting his glass aside, "as to why I have come here. There are three reasons actually. But before I start on that, I bring a message from the House of Lords expressing their disappointment in you. You should never have lost at Cowpens."  
  
"You think I don't know that?" Cornwallis wanted to shout, but, instead, he mumbled it under his breath.  
  
"Firstly, I am here to command the remaining dragoons. And perhaps this will brighten your mood a bit, General, I have been instructed to defer to your authority on the battle field. When we engage the rebels, I am to do as you command. Secondly, I am here to protect Col. William Tavington, Twelfth Grand High Dragoon of the Order of the Green Dragoons, Child of the Blood of William the Green, Founder of Our Order."  
  
The Lord General rolled his eyes. It simply wasn't fair. Those dragoons were a bunch of rabble, desperate to glorify themselves. How dare Mooreville concoct such a ridiculous title! "Protect him from whom?" the Lord General asked, though I already knew the answer somewhere in the back of his subconscious.  
  
"From you mostly, though there are a few others. That Wilkins for one."  
  
"Wilkins!"  
  
"Yes, but that's none of your concern. And there will be no disciplinary action taken against Col. Tavington due to his not obeying your orders at the Battle of Cowpens."  
  
"You cannot order such a thing!" Cornwallis exclaimed, his rage mounting once again. "Col. Tavington is under my command. He disobeyed my orders. He will go before the court!"  
  
"You couldn't kill him with opium, so now you'd have the military court hand him and save you the trouble?"  
  
Cornwallis pretended he hadn't heard the doctor's reply. "He disobeyed my orders. Anyone who refuses to follow orders goes before the court. Only a direct order from the King himself could stop such proceedings."  
  
"I letter from the king himself?" Mooreville reached into his jacket and produced a letter printed on heavy, cream-colored paper, and sealed with wax. "There you are." He handed the letter to the outraged general with a laugh.  
  
Cornwallis spent several seconds staring at the piece of questionable correspondence. He couldn't believe it. Such things weren't possible in his world. The king had liked him, had given him two beautiful purebred dogs as a reward for loyalty. It wasn't possible that his Majesty would order him to spare Tavington. Tavington! Yet, there it was, pressed into the wax was the crest of the House of Stuart.  
  
"The King has gone mad," Cornwallis lamented, unaware of how right he was.  
  
"Indeed he has," said Mooreville getting to his feet (or 'foot' in his case). "But at least he has enough sanity left to protect those who serve him loyally. I must be going now, Gen. Cornwallis. I have a regiment of dragoons to organize, and to be honest, I don't think I can stand to be around you a moment longer."  
  
The old dragoon was halfway through the door when Cornwallis called out, "I thought you said there were three reasons for your coming here. You only mentioned two."  
  
Mooreville couldn't help but smile, but this smile was hardly devilish. "And I must send Corporal Smythe home to England. The Duke believes he has chosen a suitable husband for her." 


	5. Night At Fort Carolina

Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Five: Night At Fort Carolina  
  
That night, Dr. Mooreville did not sleep. He had stationed himself in a relatively comfortable chair by the door of Col. Tavington's bedroom, inside the room naturally. When most people keep watch for would-be assassins, they wait in the hallway. Mooreville had always found his a foolish practice. The loyal servant stands watch all night, hearing nothing, only to open the chamber door in the morning to find his master dead. That was the way it always happened in stories. It was also the way it had happened to Tavington's grandfather, though they younger dragoon was unaware of the truth. That was one piece of history he could live without, the doctor had decided mostly because he could not bring himself to retell it. It was the one time Mooreville the loyal had failed.  
  
Mooreville was not a man prone to depression, but the news of several recent deaths weighed heavily upon him. The most tragic of them all was Lt. Bordon. Mooreville was an old friend of Lord James Bordon, the young lieutenant's father, and knew he would have to be the one to deliver the sad news. More tragic still, the younger Bordon had been James' only son and had died without producing an heir to continue the Bordon bloodline, which was second only to that of the Moorevilles and Tavingtons.  
  
The hours passed slowly and Mooreville had little else to do but watch Tavington sleep. First and foremost, before he had become a dragoon, Mooreville had been a physician. He had been happy too. People from all over England had come to see him, many sacrificing their life savings or selling their treasured belongings to afford the trip to London and the subsequent treatment. He had been famous for curing those thought incurable. There were lovely young ladies of marriageable age stricken with pneumonia, innocent children suffering from polio, elderly men with crippling rheumatism, and dozens of victims of the white plague. He had healed them all. It was as though he had some sort of magical touch, some sort of gift or power.  
  
Then, one day his wife fell ill. Isabel Mooreville had been a loving wife and a caring nurse to all the patients who visited. She was quiet but her silence often spoke louder than words, she was gentle, yet she was firm, and most important of all, he had loved her. He had loved her more than he though it was possible to love anyone. She had loved him in return, as she had loved everyone, with a selfless dedication. Even when she was lying on her deathbed, coughing up blood, barely able to speak, she had begged him to tend to the other patients.  
  
He had done everything in his power to save her, but she had died, and taken his gift for healing with her, though he didn't know it until it was too late. Only a day after the death of his beloved wife a stranger came to the house of Mooreville. He had been upstairs, completely consumed with grief, when he heard someone knocking on the street door. He dried his eyes and went downstairs.  
  
The man at the door was tall, muscular with broad shoulders. He was dressed in a most peculiar uniform. Mooreville had seen military uniforms before, but never one with so much green trim. Stranger still, he was fully armed with a well-worn cavalry saber and two flintlock pistols tucked into his belt. He had thick, curly black hair that hung loose about his shoulders.  
  
"You will forgive me my timing," the stranger whispered, "for your wife has only just departed this earth. However, there is someone in desperate need of your skills and I am prepared to pay handsomely."  
  
The very idea of working at such a time was offensive.  
  
"Forgive me, sir, but you will have to find some other physician. There is Dr. Greysmith. He lives down the next road a bit. Number thirty-seven, you should find it easily enough."  
  
Much to Mooreville's surprise the stranger had grown quite angry. "You are the only physician that will do in this particular case. I have asked you politely and am prepared to offer you enough to buy your wife in a fashionable manner. You will either accept my offer, or I will force you to." The stranger drew his sword and held it up so that the light reflected off of the newly-sharpened blade.  
  
Seeing as he didn't have much of a choice, Mooreville locked his front door and followed the stranger down several streets and through some dark and twisting alleyways until they came to a modest little house in one of the commoner districts of London.  
  
Here the stranger threw the door opened and led Mooreville inside, through several neat and modestly furnished rooms, until they came to a closed door.  
  
"Inside is my daughter in law," the stranger explained. "Her name is Elizabeth. They say you are the best in the city. Do what you can."  
  
Without further explanation, Mooreville found himself standing in a dimly lit chamber. The room smelled of sickness and stale air. There was a bed, and lying on it was an extraordinarily beautiful young woman. Her brown hair had been neatly, and seemingly lovingly, braided. Her cheeks were sunken, her lips blue and stained with blood. He knew before even having to examine her that she was already dead.  
  
Exiting the room to deliver the sad knew to the man in the odd uniform, Mooreville found him in sitting in a chair by the fire, directly opposite what appeared to be a larger, younger version of himself. Mooreville assumed, and correctly, that this was the man's son.  
  
He looked up and, seeing the doctor, asked simply, "Is she?"  
  
Mooreville nodded.  
  
He turned to his son, "Then I am through here." "Father!" the larger man blubbered, "You can't leave me, father! What will I do? What can I do? I. I. can't live without her!"  
  
"You will learn, or you will perish," the father stated flatly. "That is the way of things." Again, he turned to Mooreville. "Allow me to escort you home, doctor. The streets of London are no place to walk about at night without proper protection." He patted his sword affectionately.  
  
They turned to leave.  
  
"Father."  
  
"I will return for my grandson," he added with a quick glance back at his son.  
  
They went out again into the streets. For a while they walked in silence except for the sound of their shoes on the cobblestones. The stranger held an old metal lantern in one hand, but kept the other on the hilt of his saber. Mooreville thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye, tears welling up in the man's eyes.  
  
"Are you really Dr. Handalgo Mooreville, then?" he asked finally. "Born in India? Son of Lt. Christopher Mooreville and Lady Samantha?"  
  
Mooreville was startled. Many people knew his last name but very few knew his first name, let alone how to pronounce it. "I am."  
  
"Perhaps your father mentioned me once or twice. I'm Tavington. Col. William Tavington, Green Dragoons."  
  
The doctor was stunned. His father had often mentioned someone named Tavington as the officer he had served under before joining the East India Company.  
  
"Yes, he did talk about you. He served under you, didn't he?"  
  
"You could say that."  
  
There were several more minutes of silence before they reached Mooreville's door once again.  
  
"Tell me then, Dr. Mooreville, now that your wife is dead and your miraculous ability to heal seems to have faded, what do you intend to do?"  
  
"I really hadn't thought about it," he admitted.  
  
The dragoon smiled. "I wouldn't worry about it then. You shall have a new purpose quite soon enough." With that, he had left a very confused Dr. Mooreville standing on the front step of his own house. One week later, Mooreville had become the bearer of his father's sword, the first of the lesser dragoons, and consequently, Tavington's grandfather's one and only friend. He was one of the few who were allowed to call the Grand High Dragoon by his middle name, Banastre. "Bloody Ban Tavington." Mooreville like it.  
  
"Mooreville, find my grandson. Take care of him."  
  
Those had been Ban's last words, what he had whispered to Mooreville as he lay dying. They had only known one another for five years before the unexpected happened. Ban had always been so confident; perhaps it was that very confidence that condemned him in the end. He had died with one of the Duke of Fairenvail's golden daggers through his chest, the victim of a long and bloody conflict that should have ended centuries ago.  
  
"Idiot! You let him go off to America with that fool Cornwallis? Have you forgotten everything you promised?"  
  
The angry voice startled Mooreville out of is reverie. He looked up, expecting to find some ghostly specter of Ban standing before him. There was nothing, nothing except a well decorated room in a typical South Carolina plantation home that had been converted into a makeshift field hospital, and Tavington sleeping, looking eerily like his mother.  
  
"Did you speak with Lord Cornwallis?" Tavington asked, opening his soulless green eyes a bit and fixing them on Mooreville.  
  
"I did," Mooreville replied. Tavington's voice sounded better, less strained, and with a good deal of its old coldness. Finally, that opium overdose was wearing off. "He's was going to try and have them hang you for insubordination."  
  
Tavington managed a slight laugh. "That's quite typical of Lord Cornwallis. I halfway expected something like that. Was he having dinner when you spoke with him?"  
  
"Yes, actually. Why do you ask?"  
  
"It's how Lord Cornwallis deals with his losses. He drowns his sorrows in frequent, fancy dinners."  
  
The doctor thought for a moment. "You told me I could blame you if I wanted. Blame you for what?"  
  
"For the loss, of course. I know that the Lord General does."  
  
"Why would I blame you? When did you ever do anything wrong?" Mooreville laughed harder than he had in years.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES ON THE STORY SO FAR. A big thanks to anyone who has reviewed it!!! Since the character of Col. Tavington was somewhat based on British officer Banastre Tarleton, I decided to make Tavington's grandfather's middle name Banastre. It's just a reference to the real history. Just to prevent any confusion, the Tavington who is the main character of this story (and the villain in The Patriot) is William XIII, his father (the drunk guy who was married to Elizabeth) is William XII, and grandfather William Banastre Tavington is William XI. 


	6. Opium Dreams

Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Six: "Opium Dreams"  
  
Mooreville had smoked enough opium to know what withdrawal was like. Having been born in India he'd developed an addiction to it at fifteen, shortly after his father died. It had been a way of dulling the ache in his chest and filling the void that had seemingly opened beneath his feet. He'd turned to the drug out of free will. Poor Tavington, he thought, it wasn't like he had much of a choice.  
  
The night had passed uneventfully. Obviously their enemies were biding their time. The old doctor had dozed off near dawn, and awoke to find his patient absolutely miserable, suffering through his first day in nearly two months without being drugged senseless. Naturally, he'd offered the young dragoon a healthy dose of opium. His wounds were mostly healed, but Mooreville doubted his obviously shattered constitution could handle the strain of giving up the drug all at once.  
  
Much to the doctor's surprise, Tavington had refused the stuff. There was something in the connection between addiction and choice. Yet, the more he thought about it the more it made sense. Tavington had always been the sort who wanted to be in complete control of his senses at all times. Despite emotional stress that would have driven other, lesser, men to drink themselves into oblivion, William had always found other outlets for his aggression. Though considering some of the stories Mooreville had heard from the surviving dragoons perhaps it would have been better if Tavington took to the bottle once in a while.  
  
"Well, if he wants off the stuff now then he just might be strong enough," Mooreville told himself. "After all, he's one of the few who could have survived with those injuries."  
  
The doctor began to worry about noon when Tavington's headache had given way to a full blown fever. After a few hours filled with fits of delirium he had finally slipped into a feverish sleep. There had only been one other time since he had lost his seemingly miraculous ability to heal that Mooreville had wanted it back quite so badly. He had wanted to save his wife, and now he wanted to save the only man who had ever been anything close to a son to him.  
  
He'd been in the army long enough and spent enough time around sick and wounded men to know when the end was near.  
  
For the first time in nearly two years, Col. William Tavington had the misfortune of dreaming about her. Wasn't it bad enough that his head and neck hurt? His semi-conscious mind demanded, trying to ward off the unwelcome memories.  
  
"Do you remember the first time we met?"  
  
"Of course I remember. Still assuming all of us peasants are ignorant and forgetful, my dear Duchess?"  
  
They had met the first day he had come to live at his aunt's boarding school for "privileged young ladies." She had long, messy black hair and a peach-colored dress that was ripped in several places.  
  
"I figure that you're the only one who can make her shut up!"  
  
Karenna Maria Johanna Carrenworth, the future Duchess of Fairenvail, had been something of an oddity in the world of privileged young ladies. Such an oddity, in fact, that he had come to regard her as something completely different; Karenna was in a class all her own.  
  
They had been lovers only briefly during the winter the army spent in Philadelphia.  
  
"I've already run away from home. I'm disguised as a man; and I'm fighting in the British Army. Gawd! William, I don't think sharing your bed for the night is going to ruin my reputation. The way I see it, it's damn well ruined now."  
  
"She certainly has a way with words," Bordon stated once in a moment of pure sarcasm.  
  
It had only lasted a week.  
  
"I liked it much better when we were rivals," Karenna laughed. "There's something about going to bed with the man that you're trying to get the better of that doesn't quite sit right with my mind and the whole concept of things."  
  
Rivalry. That had always been the basis of their relationship, and they had completed in everything from shooting apples off the trees in her father's orchards to how many lines of Virgil they could translate from the Latin in five minutes. Both were particularly poor losers, and often would not speak for several days following one of their little competitions.  
  
Most people knew to stay out of the contests between the two. Poor Eleanor Cornwallis had learned the hard way. Karenna had suggested a horseback- ridding contest. It was the third one that month and she was desperate to pull off at least one victory.  
  
"We'll see who can jump the fence at the far end of Morganna's property," Karenna suggested.  
  
"Honestly Karenna, I really don't understand this bizarre compulsion you seem to have."  
  
"What bizarre compulsion, William?"  
  
"The bizarre compulsion to make an absolute fool of yourself."  
  
They had been on their way to the far edge of the estate when they were met by Eleanor Cornwallis, who had been out for an early morning ride. Dressed in her spotless new riding habit, she turned up her pig-nose even further at Karenna. Karenna was the sort of girl who didn't own a dress without at least three spots and tears, and who had never learned to ride sidesaddle.  
  
"And where are you two going?" she asked haughtily.  
  
"Gawd! Why do you have to be so nosey, Eleanor? What, do you own the academy now?"  
  
"Of course I don't own the academy. Don't be stupid! Now tell me what you two are doing."  
  
"We're going to see who can jump the fence down there," Karenna answered pointing to the fence in the distance. She was desperate to send Eleanor on her way and get on with proving her superiority.  
  
"Don't worry. It's something so very unrefined and positively unladylike that it wouldn't interest you," William added.  
  
Eleanor scowled. "You two are fools! Neither of you could jump that fence."  
  
"And I suppose you can?" William asked with an evil smirk.  
  
"Of course!" Eleanor bragged. "My father saw to it that I had private riding lessons from the best instructors in England."  
  
The whole thing had disintegrated into a fierce argument, and then, finally, a three person contest. The three of them had galloped at that fence full speed. William and Karenna had sailed over it with room to spare. It wasn't until they were on the other side, William staring at Karenna in amazement (she'd finally done it) and Karenna smiling her "so there, William!" smile that they realized that Eleanor was nowhere to be found. Needless to say, she hadn't quite made it. That riding accident had crippled Eleanor for life, and Tavington had always gotten the impression that the dear girl's uncle had never quite forgiven him. Cornwallis had been quite certain that Tavington had somehow talked his niece into attempting such a dangerous thing. It never dawned on Cornwallis that his niece had been an eager participant.  
  
When he told Karenna that he was going off to help put down the rebellion in the colonies her response had surprised him despite the fact that it was perfectly in keeping with her character.  
  
"Thank God! A war! Now there's a wonderful chance to prove that I am decidedly better than you."  
  
"You're a woman!" Tavington reminded her, though it sounded odd to say such a thing. He had never really though of Karenna as being a "woman." She had always been just Karenna.  
  
"So? I'll bet a few of those rebel women are dressed up as men to fight against us. From what I've overheard from father they're positively mad with hatred for us over there. Besides, father's going to drive me to the madhouse with all this constant talk of parties, suitors, and weddings."  
  
So it continued. Karenna disguised as a boy from Yorkshire named Jimmy Smythe. It was relatively convincing too, especially when she slipped into a perfect Yorkshire accent. He'd even managed to use his influence to secure her a position in a regiment of light cavalry.  
  
"Gawd! You cheating bastard! You never told me that being Grand High Dragoon automatically made you a colonel. Unfair! I'm Corporal Smythe here! Come on, you can get me something better than this!"  
  
"I'm afraid not. Just think of it as a chance to prove yourself further."  
  
Five months ago had been the last time the two of them had spoken on friendly terms. They were in Cornwallis' office, late at night, and sharing a bottle of the general's best wine. Not that Cornwallis knew anything about it, of course. The general had always attributed any alcohol that mysteriously disappeared to a rather undesirable habit of O'Hara's.  
  
Karenna had downed a few glasses and was starting to get a bit tipsy. Tavington was leaning against the fireplace mantle, examining a portrait of the first royal governor of South Carolina, who, in his opinion, bore an uncanny resemblance to mad George III. He hadn't been expecting what was coming.  
  
Karenna looked up from her glass and asked, quite simply, "William, would you marry me?"  
  
"Marry you?" he nearly choked on his own wine. "Don't joke. You know how I feel about people trying to be funny."  
  
"I'm not bein' funny, Will," her voice was slurred a bit due to the alcohol. "I've been thinkin' about it. I'm gonna be a Duchess when my father dies. I gotta get married someday. If I have to marry somebody, I guess you'd be better than most. We could spend the rest of our lives trying to destroy each other."  
  
The though had occurred to him years ago. "And I would be Duke of Fairenvail."  
  
That was the last time they had spoken as friends.  
  
It was the evening after the skirmish by the stream, the day after he had dealt harshly with the rebels in that little town of Pembroke.  
  
Still dizzy from pain and blood loss, Tavington remained in bed for a few hours after the surgeon finished sewing up the wound in his side where that annoying colonial boy's bullet had grazed him. The colonel found himself even more determined than ever to destroy that fool, Benjamin Martin. He could almost see the idiot now, alone, crying, mourning the death of his beloved son.  
  
["Before this war is over, I'm going to kill you."]  
  
"Your brandy, sir."  
  
He looked up, the dim lighting in the tent, provided by a solitary candle, illuminated the features of Capt. Wilkins. He took the brandy and had a few sips. It dulled the pain in his side a bit.  
  
"Are you alright, sir?" Wilkins asked with genuine concern.  
  
"Get out, Wilkins!" Tavington commanded, not in the mood to be bothered.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
This must be what it's like to mourn, the dragoon thought. He was surprised at the resurfacing of emotions he had long thought dead. He had been five when his mother died, and too young to remember the events clearly, so he wasn't quite sure if what he felt was sadness.  
  
Bordon had always been there. Bordon, more than anyone, knew what he was thinking, what he was feeling, and most importantly, what he wanted.  
  
"Wilkins, get me a brandy."  
  
He never had to give Bordon orders like that. Dear God! He was lying in bed injured! Bordon would have bought him a brandy and a nice cold cloth for his forehead. and Bordon would have done it without saying anything, without having been told what to do. Then he would have found a chair and made himself comfortable. The dragoon captain had a certain passion for reading; he particularly enjoyed the epic poems of Homer, Virgil, and Ovid. Bordon would pull a well-worn volume from the pocket of his red and green jacket, turn to his superior officer and ask something to the effect of, "Would you care for a little Homer this evening, sir? The Iliad perhaps?"  
  
"Yes. Thank you, Bordon."  
  
And Bordon would commence reading, his deep, slightly accented voice putting even the greatest bard of Homer's own time to shame.  
  
Eventually Tavington would fall asleep, but Bordon would sit there, just in case his commander needed anything during the course of night. Another Brandy? Some Virgil?  
  
Now he was dead. For ten years, Bordon had been there. The reliable, trustworthy, and often silent right-hand, content to follow his master's lead. It wasn't those qualities that Tavington missed. There were hundreds of men in the world who could be reliable, trustworthy, quiet, and entirely void of ambition. No, he missed Bordon because Bordon had been the only other person, besides the mother he barely remembered, who had ever truly cared about him. Karenna was too determined to prove her own worth, Mooreville was patronizing. There was no replacing Bordon.  
  
That night he fell asleep decidedly depressed, reciting some of the better portions of The Iliad to himself from memory. He was shocked to when he awoke in the middle of the night to find Karenna standing over him.  
  
Her black eyes were cold and hard, her lips were set in a firm, straight line.  
  
"A church, William?" her bottom lip quivered. "A church full of innocent people?"  
  
"They were rebels. You've killed a fair share of them yourself."  
  
"They were armed rebels, William. There is a difference between war. and slaughter."  
  
That day, he not only lost Bordon, but his chance at becoming a duke as well. Unknown to him at the time, but a few days later, he nearly lost considerably more than that, Benjamin Martin shoved a bayonet through his neck.  
  
He opened his eyes. The room was covered in a milky haze, and there, sitting on the end of the bed, was Bordon.  
  
"Lord Cornwallis tried to kill you," the captain said. "He ordered the surgeons to give you a fatal overdose of opium."  
  
"Thank you, Bordon," Tavington whispered and lapsed back into unconsciousness. 


	7. Surrendering

Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Seven: "Surrendering"  
  
"That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were alive."  
  
-Robert Browning  
  
The news of the surrender reached Mooreville as he stood over the recently dead body of Corporal Smythe. The duchess had died in a most gruesome fashion. Wilkins had found her on the battlefield following a skirmish with the rebels, a bullet through her heart.  
  
"My sister. please, look after my sister. don't let him. he's mad."  
  
Those had been her last words, supposedly whispered to Capt. Wilkins, though the old doctor suspected the loyalist might have edited them slightly.  
  
"Enjoy hell, Carrenworth bitch!" Mooreville hissed, taking one last look at the body. He had every intention of exposing her for what she was, a woman, and therefore having illegally served in the British army.  
  
"Gen. Mooreville!"  
  
He turned to find Wilkins standing at the tent flap an expression of utter despair on his face.  
  
"What is it, Wilkins?"  
  
"The war's over! General Lord Cornwallis has surrendered to Washington at Yorktown," he fell to his knees and began sobbing inconsolably.  
  
"What are you blubbering like that for?" Mooreville demanded.  
  
"We lost," Wilkins cried between sobs. "What am I going to do now? What the hell am I going to do, Gen. Mooreville? I can never go home! Damn him! This is all his fault! It's that bastard Tavington's fault that I don't have a home to go back to!"  
  
"I think you're forgetting whose decision it was to throw that torch," Mooreville stated, brushing past Wilkins and leaving the tent.  
  
Fort Carolina was nearly deserted, Cornwallis having abandoned the place in favor of his stronghold at Yorktown. He had marched out months ago leaving the wounded, the useless, and the dragoons. The buildings had fallen into disrepair and the remaining soldiers spent their days engaged in the idle pursuits of gambling and drinking. Rude patriot children would walk by, make faces, throw things, all without fear of retaliation. An oppressive blanket of apathy had settled over the dragoons who had survived Cowpens.  
  
Mooreville had given up trying to rally them to the cause of raiding the camps of rebel militiamen.  
  
"We burnt down a rebel's house once," a dragoon by the name of Godfrey had grumbled. "And look at all the hell that came outa that."  
  
"Damn ghost!" Corporal Morgan spat. "Deal the cards, Ox."  
  
"No one tells us what to do but Tavington, and you ain't Tavington," Ox added before he began dealing. He had never been regarded as particularly bright and had proven himself to be incapable of doing two things at once.  
  
"And where the hell is Tavington?" Mooreville wondered.  
  
It had taken six months, but the Grand Dragoon had eventually recovered, despite the opium and a nearly fatal bout with pneumonia. Considering his severely weakened state and permanently shattered constitution, Mooreville had been amazed to find Tavington gone one particularly gray June morning. More amazing still, he'd left nearly everything behind. There was the saber he'd had engraved before leaving for America, two of his favorite flintlock pistols, his jacket (still in relatively good condition despite the bullet hole in the left shoulder area), his helmet, everything.  
  
The greatest shock came when Mooreville checked the pockets of the jacket and discovered the pendant. The silver dragon with emerald eyes hanging from its heavy silver chain. Tavington had never taken that thing off! It was the symbol of his power, what Mooreville had given him when he assumed the title of Grand High Dragoon. He wouldn't take it off. Unless, of course.  
  
No, Mooreville told himself. Tavington might be many bad things. He was cruel, evil, heartless, and completely devoid of any emotions aside from anger, depression, and indifference, but he most certainly wasn't a traitor. No matter how angry he was with Lord Cornwallis, no matter how much he desired revenge, he would never turn traitor. Never.  
  
For several days, Mooreville had hoped that he would return just as suddenly as he had vanished. Those days turned into weeks, then months; and now with the British surrender there was no telling what had become of him. The doctor had come to accept the idea that he might never hear from Tavington again. He had left behind the pendant, the very embodiment of his hereditary power. If he hadn't gone to pursue a course of vengeful, traitorous action, then there was only one explanation. Tavington had, as Mooreville feared he would, come to the inevitable conclusion that he was physically incapable of fighting for the crown again. Thus, thinking his life worthless, and desiring an end to his pain and emotional suffering, he had decided to end it all in the most convenient way possible. That would certainly explain why his third, and quite possibly his favorite, gun was the only thing he hadn't left behind. 


	8. In the Pursuit of Quality

Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Eight: "In the Pursuit of Quality"  
  
"Step away from that ledge, Prudence!" -my English prof., explaining the importance of names  
  
North of London, in the middle of a vast moor, sitting atop a hill, was the Tavington Estate. The dragoons had always called it that, even though the place was little more than a glorified country house that was just a bit too small to be a mansion. It had been built by Col. William Tavington's grandfather, William XI, and he had spared no expense in decorating it with the finest furnishings. He had even commissioned two grand murals, one for the ballroom and another for the ceiling of the library, depicting fanciful warriors mounted on actual dragons, green dragons, of course.  
  
When he had become Grand High Dragoon at the age of twenty-four, Mooreville had presented his ambitious young protégé with the deed to the estate. Tavington had always been very secretive about it. No one knew of the place's existence, or his ownership of it, besides the other dragoons and his loyal servants, Madeline the maid, and a butler simply called Groan. There was a very good reason for this as well. He still owed a great deal of money to his father's creditors. Should any of them learn about the estate he would have no choice but to sell it to pay off his father's old debts. That would leave him nowhere to live but the attic of his Aunt Morganna's school, and he had lived there quite long enough.  
  
Going to the colonies had been a risk, and somehow he wasn't quite so surprised to return home to a notice of foreclosure, compliments of the Bank of England.  
  
"Oh, you must be the former owner," the unfamiliar butler who answered the door stared down his long, pointed nose at Tavington. "The bank left this for you and here's a little something from a certain Capt. James Bordon." The butler handed him two, opened, letters. "Now, kindly remove yourself from this property before you infect us all with whatever dreadful plague you're suffering from."  
  
The Bordons had always lived just outside of Liverpool, in an impressive mansion built with a combination of money earned through hard work and inheritance. Retired Capt. James Bordon, Henry Bordon's father, had always been renowned for his hospitality. He was the sort of man who enjoyed company, old war stories, and pointless conversation. Like all Bordons, he was an avid reader and willing to while the night away in discussion of his favorite books. More than anyone, James Bordon found it impossible to exist without companionship.  
  
When he came to House of Bordon, Tavington never expected that he would be greeted at the door by his own butler, Groan.  
  
"Mr. Tavington?" Groan asked, squinting a bit. He was eighty-three, and had lost just about everything, including his memory, his hearing, his hair, and most recently, the majority of his sight. "Ah yes, that is Mr. Tavington."  
  
"Dear God!" Madeline the maid cried coming up behind Groan. "Oh you poor dear! Whatever did they do to you over there? Those heathen! Do move out of the way, Groan. Come in! Come in, dear!" She seized Groan by the shoulders and removed him bodily from the doorway.  
  
"Now hold your horses. There's no need to push a man about, Maddy."  
  
"There is when it's someone as old and slow as you, Groan," Madeline said with a laugh. Then, turning back to her former employer, "You color's quite off, dear. You're so pale. You went and got yourself sick or hurt or something to the like, didn't you? I swear! This is what happens when you don't have old Madeline about to give you advice."  
  
Capt. James Bordon appeared in the hall. He had changed quite a bit since Tavington had last seen him, shortly before leaving for America. In those few years, the older Bordon had managed to go completely bald and cultivate a thick gray beard. He was noticeably heavier and there were deeper lines about his face, but he had managed to retain the same old jolly personality. Though, considering some of the stories of James Bordon's military doings he had heard from Mooreville, Tavington sometimes wondered how jolly a man who had sliced the head off a small girl could be.  
  
"Groan, Madeline, what's all the fuss about? I thought." his voice trailed off and a wide smile spread over his features. With the beard, he looked like some sort of deranged Santa Claus.  
  
"William!" he cried shoving past Groan and Madeline, to embrace the dashing young dragoon in the sort of rib-crushing hug reserved for returning friends who have been gone for a long while. "You look awful! Absolutely awful!"  
  
He turned to the two servants. "Well, what are you two standing there like a couple of statues for? Hurry, go fix dinner! We have company."  
  
Groan and Madeline hurried off, though for them hurrying really wasn't the word.  
  
"Come in! Come in!" James Bordon said with a hearty laugh, we've much to talk about.  
  
* * *  
  
When his guests didn't seem to appreciate his hospitality, James Bordon tended to grow very uncomfortable. He looked across the table at Tavington, the candlelight accenting the blue highlights around his lips and eyes. Whatever had happened to him in the colonies, it hadn't been good. Bordon could only guess, but he assumed it that the green silk scarf Tavington had taken to wearing around his neck might be connected to it as well.  
  
After Madeline served dinner, there followed nearly an hour during which Tavington toyed idly with his knife and Bordon ate.  
  
"I'm sorry about your house," Bordon ventured finally. "I did all I could. I would have paid off your father's debt if I'd had enough. How a single man every managed to amass that much debt I'll never know. I hated to see the house fall into someone else's hands."  
  
Tavington looked up, eyes like ice. "I won't take charity, Bordon."  
  
"I don't offer charity. I only offered as a friend. As one friend to another, and as repayment for all you and your grandfather have done for us."  
  
The silence descended again. Tavington looked around the Bordon's dining room. It was very plain, a simple table and chairs, pewter candlesticks with white candles, linen tablecloth, not-so-fine china. It was reminiscent of something one might find in a simple peasant's home only on a much large scale. Obviously the Bordons had cared more for size as a means of impressing others; unlike Tavington's grandfather who had relied on decoration.  
  
Tavington was fondly reminded of his own dining room. Not being the sort of man who derived pleasure from eating in the way that Gen. Lord Cornwallis or James Bordon did, he rarely sat down for a formal meal; and that was only when he didn't neglect food completely. There were the few dinners he had enjoyed beneath the great vaulted ceiling with its exposed rafter beams ascending up into the blackness. Meals served on plates decorated with designs of intertwined dragons, wine in crystal glasses, red candles in silver candlesticks; those things had allowed him to feel, if only briefly, like something more than a peasant. He could forget his disowned father's debt and his own struggle for glory. Beneath that ceiling, he could be at peace.  
  
"Your father was such a foolish drunkard that even your mad grandfather disowned him. Your mother was a common whore! You are a peasant and you will always be a peasant! You will never be our equal, never!"  
  
Cornwallis might have been cruel, but O'Hara had been worse.  
  
There were also the paintings; thirteen giant canvases, depicting every Grand High Dragoon from the time of William I, William the Green who stood in silent sentinel over the doors to the dining room. His painting was the only fanciful one. The tall, muscular young man with wavy black hair and piercing green eyes leaned was mounted on a black horse. Despite the fact that his all too green eyes were staring forward, his left hand pointed toward a dead green dragon. The beast had been slain in a most peculiar manner, a shining silver lance impaled through its neck.  
  
Other than the fantastic portrayal of William the Green there was nothing truly spectacular about the paintings except that there happened to be two William the Ninths. Mooreville had never bothered to explain this particular oddity in his explanation of the family's history, but Tavington had inferred from reading the inscriptions on the small plaques mounted beneath each painting that the two William the Ninths had been twins. They shared a common birth date, though that was about the only thing they shared.  
  
The first William the Ninth, William Edgar Tavington, had inherited all the physical characteristics that were typical of those with Tavington blood, dark wavy hair, greenish eyes, noble bearing, and broad shoulders. His twin brother, William Victor Tavington, could very well have been adopted. He was thin and graceful with thick dark red hair and porcelain white skin, the sort of man who would have made a very beautiful woman. William Victor had a sort of ethereal quality about his features, that characteristic of absolute flawlessness indicating a fragile hold on life. He'd lived to the age of twenty-three. Tavington wasn't surprised. His short life helped to explain why only the descendants of William Edgar Tavington were depicted in the paintings that came afterwards.  
  
"Who's sharing dinner with my ancestors now?" Tavington wondered. It could have been any one of his father's creditors, but he suspected Mr. Gromwell, the fat old card player from the tavern with his red face and disgustingly fat body.  
  
"The Duke of Fairenvail died yesterday," Bordon commented.  
  
"You mean Karenna's father?" Tavington asked with sudden renewed interest in conversation.  
  
"You didn't know?"  
  
Tavington picked up the table knife and started toying with it again. "No, I didn't. At least dear Karenna will be there in hell to greet him."  
  
Bordon laughed. "How true! The less of his bread in the world the better."  
  
"I never knew the two of you were acquainted. When did you meet the Duke?"  
  
Bordon looked confused. "He murdered your grandfather. Remember? Every green dragoon knows about the Duke of Fairenvail."  
  
Tavington dropped the knife, it hit the table with a loud clack that echoed through the large room.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Mooreville. never told you?" Bordon asked, an nervous undercurrent to his voice, realizing too late that he'd said too much.  
  
"He didn't," Tavington replied, standing and staring across the table at Bordon, his jade eyes burning holes in the retired captain's soul. "But you will. Explain, Bordon." 


	9. Arete, part one

Carrenworth: The Vengeance: Chapter Nine: "Arête" ~part one~  
  
HISTORICAL NOTE: Arête was an extremely Greek virtue exemplified by the hero Achilles in the Homeric epic, THE ILIAD. Literally translated, Arête means excellence. The purest form of Arête was excellence in battle.  
  
"My excellence is proven through your defeat."  
  
In the library of the Ecole Militaire in Paris dust wafted through the air on gentle gusts of wind stirred up by the turning of pages. Some of it came to rest again on the tops of unused tables, stacks of ancient books, and quill pens resting in inkwells only to be stirred up once again when someone came to sit at the table, read the books, or write with the quill. Thus, in an unending, seemingly immortal cycle, the circulation of dust continued. Yet, in this library there existed the continuation of yet another seemingly endless cycle, the one who exists to upset the balance. Some lucky pieces of ever roving dust were to find there escape by, in their lazy wanderings, coming to rest within the thick auburn hair of Victor Alexander Carrenworth VI.  
  
Victor was twenty-one, and as far as those near him were concerned, a man of roughly six passions, one for each of the Victor Carrenworths who had come before. He was dedicated to his thin, silver rapier, a blade that he could command to do things few thought possible. His skill with the sword was unparalleled. The fencing instructors often joked that the reason Victor had never been defeated was that his opponents were too entranced by his glorious skill. They were too occupied with observing to even remember that they were the target.  
  
He was dedicated to being beautiful. There was never a day when Victor Alexander Carrenworth resembled anything less than one of the Greek gods descended from Mount Olympus. He dressed as someone of his social standing was expected to dress and somehow managed to exceed the expectation. In addition to a seemingly endless supply of fashionable outfits, Victor kept another seemingly endless supply of accessories. These included hair ribbons in every color from light mauve to midnight black, hundreds of uniquely designed rings, leather gloves in black, brown, red, and numerous other shades, and enough shoes to make even the richest lady jealous. He began every day with a hot bath, the water scented with rose oil. There were also his uniquely scarlet handkerchiefs, one of which he would produce in the event of one of those strange spasms of coughing he was subject to.  
  
He was dedicated to learning, being the sort who eagerly learned anything he though might be of some use in the future. He wanted to be prepared to handle any situation that arose, converse knowledgably on any topic, and offer advice for solving any problem. He had graduated from Oxford, with a law degree at the age of seventeen, before dedicating himself to military training. He spoke perfect Latin, Greek, and French.  
  
He was dedicated to proving his own superiority, and willingly accepted any challenge he did not find foolish or beneath his dignity. So far he had proven himself the most capable man in nearly everything but drinking. His tiny, frail body prevented him from downing several pints of ale with no noticeable consequences; not that he drank anyway.  
  
He was dedicated to perfection. It was widely suspected that he considered himself the very embodiment of perfection and expected nothing less of others. Though this was very near to the truth, in all honesty, though the imperfections of others sometimes annoyed him, Victor preferred to think of others as lesser people. If everyone was quite as perfect as he then what would his own excellence matter?  
  
Lastly, he was dedicated to military common sense. He considered the British generals who had fought to put down the rebellion in the colonies fools. Marching through the fields in those distinctive red jackets was just advertising oneself as a viable target.  
  
Nearly everyone who met Victor Alexander Carrenworth developed an almost immediate dislike for him, because for every single one of his good qualities he possessed at least four bad ones. He was arrogant and to sure of the inherent correctness of his own opinions to tolerate those of others. He was susceptible to violent mood swings ranging from inexhaustible drive and energy to deep depression and apathy, and during those times of depression his normal shield of self-love faded to reveal his horrible insecurities and his irrational jealousy of those who he perceived to be better at something than he was, and it was toward the target of his jealousy that he directed his entire capacity for irrational hatred. And if that wasn't enough, there was his dreadfully high-pitched voice that no normal person could stand listening to for longer than five minutes. There was also that general feeling of discomfort that surrounded him, something to do with odd twitches of the eyes and lips.  
  
"Your lordship."  
  
Victor Alexander Carrenworth looked up from the thick tome of etiquette he had been studying. Some of that dust that had settled in hair was condemned once again to its eternal unrest. His piercing, slanted, blue eyes fixed themselves on the pudgy face of a man he hadn't seen in several years, Gen. William Howe.  
  
"My dear General Howe, whatever brings you here?"  
  
Gen. Howe couldn't help but stare in amazement at how the boy he had brought to France four years ago had transformed from a sniveling little boy into a something more suited to the title of Duke of Fairenvail. The boy's father had entrusted Howe with protecting young Victor, hiding him from the family's enemies, those brutal and barbaric Tavingtons and their ally, Dr. Handalgo Mooreville.  
  
"Business of the most serious kind," the general replied. "And might I say that I am glad to see your lordship looking well."  
  
Howe was painfully aware of his lie. He could already see the signs of the disease that seemed to be hereditary to those with the Carrenworth name. Victor's father, the Duke, had been one of the few who did not meet an early death at the hands of consumption.  
  
"I appreciate the intention of your thoughtful lie."  
  
Howe gave a nervous little laugh. He had never been a good liar, and the Duke's gift for sensing motives seemed to have been inherited by his son.  
  
"Now, what is this business you wish to discuss with me?"  
  
The general looked about the library nervously at the other students, most pretended to be immersed in their studies, others who were not so discreet stared wide-eyed. What was this English-speaking and obviously British man doing in the finest of the French military academies.  
  
"I would speak in private."  
  
"Of course," Victor answered standing and closing the book with his thin, white fingers.  
  
Without another word, he led Gen. Howe out of the library, through the halls, and out onto the academy's parade ground. Normally used for infantry drills, it was deserted now that the weather had turned bitterly cold. A cruelly cold breeze blew across the wide expanse of cobblestone plainness. They were perfectly alone. Gen. Howe pulled his woolen great- coat tighter around his fat body. He had the common sense not to wear his British uniform. The two nations were not on the friendliest of terms. Victor slipped a pair of pale-blue leather gloves over his hands. The breeze ruffled his red curls.  
  
"You shouldn't be out in this weather, your lordship. With your weak."  
  
Victor gave the general a particularly black look, the sort of look only someone with piercing eyes is capable of. Howe immediately fell silent.  
  
"Walk with me, Gen. Howe." It was a command, not an invitation.  
  
They began a long circuit around the parade grounds, Howe shivering from the cold despite his bulk, and Victor seemingly unaffected despite his illness, though he did pull one of his scarlet handkerchiefs out of his sleeve and cough into it occasionally.  
  
When they had traversed nearly a quarter of the grounds, Victor turned to Howe and asked in a nearly maniacal tone, "Is he dead? Is he finally dead?"  
  
"You refer to your father?"  
  
"Of course I refer to my father, you idiot!" he cried in absolute disgust at the general's ignorance. "Who else would I be referring to?"  
  
There was a second of awkward silence. Howe fidgeted with his pudgy finger as bit. "Yes, your father is dead, and if I may say so, you lordship does not appear to be particularly saddened by this news."  
  
"Saddened? By the death of that old fool? The man who condemned me to this unendurable exile? The man who sent me to live amongst the enemy? The man who, if he had lived another year, would have very well put me at risk for execution by the rebels who are organizing beneath the very nose of the French monarchy?"  
  
Howe was quite used to the young Duke's outbursts furry, still he couldn't help being a bit surprised by the severity of the hatred he felt towards his father. The general remembered well the sorrow he had felt when his own father had passed away.  
  
"He only though of your safety."  
  
"Hah! My safety? He never thought about me. He never though of anyone but himself."  
  
Howe was struck by the irony of this statement. He had to bite his tongue to keep himself from laughing.  
  
Victor's blue eyes lit up horribly. "Where is it? I want it now!"  
  
Howe sighed and reached into the pocket of his great-coat; from the depths he produced a small, red box. Victor snatched it greedily, snapped it open, then loving, gently, removed its contents. It was his father's most prized possession; he had never taken it off. If Howe had it there was no doubting that the old man was really, truly dead. He returned the box to the general and despite the fact that he was wearing leather gloves Victor managed to fasten the golden chain around his neck. Dangling from the chain was the symbol of the Carrenworth family, the pendant in the shape of a golden dragon with fierce, fiery-red eyes.  
  
"I hardly doubt that the whole of the time you spent in France was unendurable," Howe ventured.  
  
"Whatever makes you say that?" the new Duke of Fairenvail asked off- handedly, too absorbed in admiring his new accessory to pay full attention to the general.  
  
"There were those few months you spent in the colonies with the British navy when they came to assist the rebels in their defeat of Cornwallis at Yorktown."  
  
Victor remembered his brief stay in the colonies exactly as he remembered most things, in wondrous detail. Every second of that tedious voyage, the incompetence of the French naval officers, the horrid lack of cleanliness, were all engraved in his mind. There was that one amusing incident, however, and that was when he had challenged that colonist to a duel. The fool had bumped into him on the street. Victor knew it had most likely been an accident, but he was so deathly bored that he made quite the fuss out of it. He had accused the colonist of everything from blindness to flat-out stupidity. He had always enjoyed an argument and would have been perfectly content with humiliating the man. The fool might still be alive, Victor concluded, if he hadn't committed the ultimate transgression. Never, in his entire life, had Victor Alexander Carrenworth been punched.  
  
The utter humiliation, the damage to his precious ego, had caused such blind furry to consume him that his eyes filled with tears, which were streaming down his white cheeks, one of which was turning a deep purple; by the time he had calmed down enough to challenge the colonist to a contest of honor.  
  
The poor man had been woefully inexperienced in formal combat. He had lasted a mere thirty seconds against Victor's blade.  
  
There was only one thing that seemed to escape the duke's impeccable memory, and that was the colonist's name. He had only heard it once. Martin. perhaps? Yes, that was it, Benjamin Martin.  
  
"I had no choice but to go were the French commanded me," Victor told Howe coldly his voice like the winter air around them. "I have been a veritable prisoner in this country. Do not think my actions traitorous. My loyalty to the king is second only to my loyalty to myself. As much as I hate to admit it, as much as any man who relies so heavily on his own abilities would hate to admit it, without England, I am nothing."  
  
Howe tried to calm his nerves. This boy made him feel decidedly uneasy. "Woe to the man who would accuse a Carrenworth of being a traitor."  
  
"Well spoken, my dear general," Victor's lips curved into a mockery of a smile. He put one of his arms around Howe's shoulders. "But I have kept you out in the cold long enough. If you've nothing more of true importance to say then I must invite you to share in my afternoon tea. We must arrange a marvelous party to commemorate my return to England."  
  
"A party, your lordship? Are you sure that's. proper?"  
  
"It would only be improper where I in mourning and I do assure you, Sir Howe, I have no intention of wearing black. That particular color is quite out of style this season." 


	10. The Dangerous Dragoon Division

Tavington/Carrenworth: The Narratives: Chapter Ten: "The Dangerous Dragoon Division"  
  
"He lived," Gen. Howe remarked.  
  
They had been silent for so long that Howe felt himself in genuine danger of expiring from boredom. The journey from London to the Carrenworth's country estate was a long one and over such rough terrain that the carriage jolted back and forth so sharply that neither man had been able to sleep. Howe suggested that they stop somewhere to rest, worried as he was about the health of his young ally, but Victor Carrenworth had refused. The Grand High Golden Dragoon was eager to reach his ancestral home as soon as possible, and his seemingly endless reserve of energy did not appear to have been affected by the disease that was slowly consuming his lungs.  
  
"Who lived?" Victor asked listlessly. He had been watching the countryside from the window, though there wasn't much of a view due to the relative darkness of the night. As he turned his head to face Howe the moonlight reflected off the edges of the golden dragon pendant. "Certainly you don't mean my father."  
  
"No, I mean Col. Tavington."  
  
"Tavington?" the young nobleman's eyebrows contracted in anger. "I received word of his death in a personal piece of correspondence from General Lord Cornwallis himself. Did he lie to me? How dare he lie to me!"  
  
"I don't think he meant to lie, your lordship," Howe said quickly in an attempt to pacify the enraged duke. "He tried, when they brought him back from that battlefield, his injuries were so severe that no one expected him to last the night. There are few men who could last five minutes with bayonet wounds in their neck and gut and a bullet through their left shoulder."  
  
Victor though this over for a moment, resting his chin on a thin, blue- gloved hand.  
  
"It's impossible. No one could survive with injuries like that. We're both practical men, my dear general. The shoulder is minor, but wounds to the abdomen are nearly always fatal, let alone bayonets through the neck. Even if one were to survive, surely infection, gangrene, or some other such unpleasantness would be perfectly willing to finish the poor wretch off."  
  
The general was reluctant to continue, Victor could sense, it was as though he was somehow ashamed. "Gen. Cornwallis wasn't going to risk leaving it up to nature. He ordered the surgeons to administer a fatal overdose of laudanum. Unfortunately, there were both inexperienced surgeons and a shortage of the drug."  
  
"Damnation!" the duke struck the side of the carriage so hard that Howe jumped. "Fate seems determined that I kill the man myself!"  
  
"Do you intend to kill him then, your lordship?"  
  
"It's my duty. It is the sacred duty of anyone with the virtue of Carrenworth blood, to destroy all who bear the name Tavington. Though I must admit that the rewards for doing so have decreased significantly since the birth of that disgusting drunkard, William the Twelfth."  
  
"My agents have tracked Tavington to London, and more recently, to the house of one of William the Eleventh's old associates, James Bordon. If it would please your lordship, we could end his life quite easily. We could send de Fleur, he's the best assassin in the Golden Dragoons."  
  
"And deny me the pleasure of doing the deed myself?" Victor cried. "I think not, my dear general! Besides, I've no intention of killing him anytime soon. If he was as severely injured as you claim then he must be quite weak now. What would be the challenge in killing a man in that state? Where's your sense of adventure, general? Where's your sense of competition? I must give him at least two years to regain his skills and his strength."  
  
Howe shifted his bulk a bit and loosened his collar. It was growing uncomfortably warm in the carriage.  
  
"Two years? Are you quite certain you want to wait that long, your lordship? Are you so sure that you'll be," he hesitated, "alive in two years?"  
  
"I have no intention of dying until at least four years from now," Victor replied with an eerily high-pitched laugh before resuming his careful scrutiny of the dark countryside.  
  
Soon, they turned onto a well-maintained road. The carriage ride became considerably smoother, and Howe quickly fell asleep. Victor continued to stare out of the window, trying to ignore Howe's dreadful snoring and daydreaming about the day, sometime in the not so distant future, when the Golden Dragoons would reign supreme.  
  
"William, you poor fool," he whispered in fanatical delight. "How little you really know. You are safe for now, but the day will come. The day will come, William Lucifer Tavington XIII, when you will be lying on the ground, the point of my blade at your throat. You will beg for mercy and it will not be granted. And when my blade pierces your neck, you won't live to tell about it."  
  
* * *  
  
"You've studied the paintings, no doubt?" Bordon inquired. Tavington nodded, so the captain continued. "Undoubtedly you've noticed that there are two men who bear the name William IX. It is with them that this conflict began. I don't know the exact details, what I know I heard from Mooreville, he was the only one who your grandfather ever really trusted."  
  
"Damn Mooreville," Tavington snapped. "Why didn't he tell me any of this?"  
  
"Mooreville's reasons are his own. Who knows why Mooreville does the things he does? Though I would suspect he wanted to protect you. He didn't want you attacking the Duke of Fairenvail and getting yourself killed. The Golden Dragoons are known for their unmatched skill in sword combat."  
  
"Golden Dragoons?" Tavington asked skeptically.  
  
"I'm getting to it," Bordon answered quickly before continuing. "Deep down though, I think that the whole reason Mooreville never told you was that he didn't want to relive the memories. It was too painful for him. He always blamed himself for your grandfather's death.  
  
"He told me that it all began around the English Civil War. Your grandfather's grandfather, William Edgar Tavington had presented a challenge to the ancient tradition of the dragoons. William Edgar had a twin brother, William Victor Tavington. According to the codes and regulations set down by William the Green upon the founding of the order, the title of Grand High Dragoon is bestowed upon the oldest son of the House of Tavington. You could say that William Edgar was older, by about two minutes.  
  
"As dragoons were are sworn to protect, serve, and preserve the British Empire regardless of the actions taken by the army. In the 1640's, when Oliver Cromwell plunged the country into civil war, William Edgar took up his saber in defense of King Charles. He offered his brother the position of second-in-command, but William Victor would have none of it. He resented his older brother and was eager to prove his worth, so he left his family, changed his name, managed to marry some minor princess since he was considered one of the most handsome men in England, and founded what we call the Golden Dragoons. He became Victor Alexander Carrenworth the First, Victor the Red, and Duke of Fairenvail. Then he pledged his loyalty to Cromwell.  
  
"I suppose it was inevitable that the two brothers would meet on the field of battle. There was a great contest, but in the end William Edgar Tavington prevailed. He killed his brother, who he considered a traitor. One would think that would be the end of it, but fifteen years later William Victor's son murdered William Edgar. Thus began the feud that claimed the life of your grandfather. For generations the two halves of the Tavington family, the two factions of dragoons have sought to destroy one another. The Golden Dragoons have used their titles of nobility and their fortunes to try and prove their superiority. There are many who would see them as the only hereditary order, despite their traitorous origins."  
  
"And you kept all this from me?" Tavington asked, horrified, disgusted at his own ignorance. "We are engaged in a feud and you never told me?"  
  
"I thought you knew," Bordon protested, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I thought Mooreville told you. He is the one who kept you in the dark."  
  
"I can't believe this." Tavington collapsed back into his chair and began massaging his temples.  
  
"Not that it matters now. The Duke of Fairenvail is dead. The war is over. We've won. William Victor's bloodline has finally died out."  
  
A sudden revelation struck Tavington with the force of a bullet through the heart.  
  
"The Duke of Fairenvail. that means that Karenna was. my Karenna was my enemy?"  
  
"I'm afraid so," Bordon uncorked a bottle of wine and poured a glass for himself and one for Tavington. "Her sister, Anna, still lives but we've nothing to fear from her. Now, drink this. You'll feel better."  
  
Tavington took the wine and downed it in a couple of gulps.  
  
"Tonight, we drink to the victory of the Green Dragoons!"  
  
He filled Tavington's glass and they drank. Bordon was jolly as ever, but William felt this was the hollowest victory he had ever celebrated, mostly because he'd had nothing to do with it.  
  
"How much more is there that I don't know?" he wondered, afraid, for the first time in his life, to ask.  
  
Then another, more horrible possibility occurred to him. What if Karenna had known? What she had been part of some plot of her father's? What if, in asking him to marry her, she had only been leading him to his own demise? 


	11. The Returns

Tavington/Carrenworth: The Narratives: Chapter Eleven: The Returns  
  
"And I salute you for your courage, and I applaud your perseverance, and I embrace you for your faith in the face of adversarial forces that I represent." -Alanis Morissette  
  
Tavington returned to London, amazed that the building hadn't been rented out to anyone since he's left it over nearly ten years ago. It was a prime location on a busy London street, literally smashed between a bakery and wig shop. The baker had taken the liberty of using the windows as a place to hang signs advertising his goods. The former dragoon commander scanned them quickly, "Fresh Bread, baked daily," "Muffins and Pies," and "The Best in the City." Irritably he tore the signs off the windows, crumpled them into balls, and tossed them into the gutter.  
  
The brass plaque nailed to the door had held up remarkably well, and after a few minutes of intense polishing, the accumulated grim had thinned enough to reveal the still legible proclamation, William L. Tavington, attorney at law. He pulled a large, heavy key from the pocket of his new black civilian coat, jammed it into the lock and turned. Click!  
  
Inside remained unchanged as well, except for the thick layer of dust that had settled in a sheet over the floor and furniture. There were a few neglected papers that had gone yellow and brittle and a copy of the Times from 1771.  
  
"Gawd! I never saw you as the lawyer sort!" Karenna had exclaimed, nearly doubling over with laughter. Her black hair was braided and done up fashionably. She twirled around in the center of the room, her green skirts billowing out. "It just doesn't suit you at all."  
  
"Well then, who does it suit?" William asked, somewhat curious.  
  
"Oh, it suits old men in black, boys who are too thin, and the ambitious sons of typesetters," the lady explained. "I've always seen you as more the soldier type. You know, hair braided, new red uniform, and a foolish cockney to shine the buttons on it and your boots. You're the sort who needs servants. I can't see you doing anything. menial."  
  
There was a door in the back left corner of the room leading to a set of stairs that, in turn, led to a small set of rooms above the office. Those had been Tavington's home for two years, before he was reacquainted with Mooreville. They were the same as always. There was a bed, a four-candle candlestick, and a chest filled with clothes that had been in style in the early 1770's.  
  
"You were right, Karenna," Tavington said aloud to the empty room. "I never did like being a lawyer. It didn't suit me." Then, with an air of contempt he continued, "I suppose I wasn't such a wonderful dragoon either. That's why I've returned to this."  
  
He had spent a week at the Bordon's, though he old man had invited him to stay longer, he had refused. Capt. James Bordon's war stories were becoming repetitive, and Tavington wasn't the sort of man to remain dependant on others for long. It was against his nature. There was also the fact that he no longer felt comfortable around any of the older dragoons. They had kept the secret of his family's history from him too long. Simply put, he didn't trust them anymore.  
  
The former dragoon reestablished his law practice and enjoyed moderate success. He wasn't happy, but then again, he doubted that he had ever been happy.  
  
It took a long time, so long that Tavington began to question his own mental stability, but the void created by the loss of Bordon, Karenna, the dragoons, his ignorance, his home, and most of the use of his left arm, began to fill. Time dulled the pain and helped to repair his shattered constitution. When he wasn't in court or bailing on of his drunken clients out of jail he would take his grandfather's saber down from its place of honor, decorating the walls of his bedroom, and give it a few test swings. It was still too heavy, too tiring.  
  
It was the sad truth of the thing; he would never be a dragoon again. He had lost everything, everything but the faint flame of the force that had once driven his actions. Somewhere in the very core of his being there was still ambition, and it was ambition that gave Tavington the strength to carry on. There was always Parliament, there was always politics, and there was always another duchess somewhere who might like to marry a famous lawyer. Yes, there was always ambition.  
  
Yet, even Tavington's fiery ambition found its flame dying as 1781 turned into 1782 and 1782 became 1783 with no change. He was still defending drunkards and pickpockets. Even the House of Commons had neglected to offer him a seat. A suffocating depression descended over Tavington and his law office between the bakery and the wig shop.  
  
In early 1783, he was sitting at his desk calculating the fees he was owed by several clients. Rain mixed with ice beat against the windows. It was on that morning he received word of the death of Capt. James Bordon. He had been found sitting at his dinner table, a golden dagger neatly shoved through his throat. Atop the table, resting in a pool of blood, was a single, white rose.  
  
* * *  
  
"Dear me-show boy, I know you're not really into conflict resolution, or seeing both sides of every equation, or having an uninterrupted conversation." -Alanis Morisette  
  
"Your sister will not be waiting for you," Howe remarked.  
  
The carriage had pulled up in front of the Carrenworth estate, the moon was now hidden by thick clouds, but the outline of the massive estate was still visible through the darkness. No lights shone from the windows, the law was overgrown, no servants milled about. The whole place was dead, as it had been since the death of the last duke.  
  
"Where are my servants?" Victor asked irritably.  
  
"Sir, your sister," Howe protested.  
  
"That is a secondary manner," the new duke snapped. "Where are my servants, the ones who are supposed to meet me at the door and offer me something to eat?"  
  
"They've all gone, my lord." Howe fidgeted nervously with his fingers.  
  
"Gone? What do you mean they've all gone?"  
  
"With the duke dead they feared an attack by the Green Dragoons. You know the Tavington reputation for burning things down."  
  
"Well, you certainly don't expect me to make my own bed and serve my own breakfast, do you?"  
  
Howe continued to fidget. "Of course not, my lord, but it will take several days to round up all of the old servants."  
  
"Several days!"  
  
"Please accept my apologies, my lord. There is one servant left, your father's old manservant, de Fleur."  
  
"I thought de Fleur was one of the dragoons?" Victor asked, greatly annoyed by the old general's complete lack of competence.  
  
"He is. He was your father's second in command. He just also happened to be his manservant. You won't find a finer manservant, or a finer assassin for that matter."  
  
"An assassin!" Victor exclaimed. "My new manservant is an assassin?"  
  
"Yes, and who better to protect you from assassins than an assassin."  
  
"As though I needed protection. I am perfectly capable of defending myself, thank you!"  
  
Howe laughed. "Spoken like a man who has never dealt with a Tavington."  
  
Victor raised his eyebrows. "Do you mock me, sir?"  
  
"Of course not, your lordship."  
  
Victor turned his attention back to the ghostly outline of his new home. Even in the darkness, it was easy to see that the place was so large that most would find it a horrible waste for only one person to live there. Perfect. That was just the way Victor liked things.  
  
"Now, what were you saying about my sister?"  
  
"Yes, Anna, the poor girl. The loss of her father and sister, Karenna, in so short a time seems to have driven the poor girl quite mad. One of the maids found her in the kitchens, and narrowly prevented her from slitting her wrists with a carving knife. We had no choice but to commit her to an institution, your lordship."  
  
"So my sister is a lunatic locked up in a mad house?" the duke asked bluntly.  
  
"Yes, your lordship." 


	12. With the Morning Comes the Reaffirmation

Carrenworth: The Vengeance: Chapter Twelve: "With the Morning Comes the Reaffirmation"  
  
In a brocade dressing gown that was so thick and large it seemed to be consuming his slender body, Victor Alexander Carrenworth leafed through the collection of financial documents and record books that contained all of the figures related to the Carrenworth estate. As much as the late Victor Alexander Carrenworth V had prided himself on exactitude, his son found his record keeping to be somewhat lacking. There were even unpaid debts, most of them to the owners of houses of ill repute located in the seedier districts of London. Victor rolled his blue eyes; certainly a man like his father could afford to indulge his vices in classier establishments, the sort Victor himself had been known to visit.  
  
"Your tea, your lordship."  
  
De Fleur, his new manservant, set a tray containing an impressive silver tea service on the edge of the massive desk.  
  
"Does your lordship require anything else?"  
  
Victor filled a cup with cream, to which he added a few drops of tea.  
  
"More cream, perhaps?"  
  
The duke took a small sip of his drink, and finding it satisfactory, replied, "That will be all, de Fleur."  
  
"Very good, your lordship."  
  
The assassin bowed, and was gone.  
  
Victor had never seen an assassin before, and had only speculated as to what one might look like. He imagined, like most would, a man dressed entirely in black with seven or eight knives hidden about his person. De Fleur was a pleasant surprise. Though tall, slender, and lithe in the way one would assume an assassin to be, he wore very uninteresting clothes in the fashion of servants and powdered his hair. He looked exactly like a manservant, not like an assassin at all, and for that Victor admired him. Going about in black, armed with numerous knives would demonstrate an incredible lack of common sense, a lacking of the sort of tactical common sense that Victor liked.  
  
He also served tea promptly and prepared bathwater that was neither too hot nor too cold. Who could ask for more? As a manservant and as an assassin he would do nicely.  
  
The door to the study opened. Victor didn't bother to look up. He knew it would be Gen. Howe.  
  
"Good morning, your lordship," Howe said cheerfully. He didn't seem so nervous. A good night's sleep had done him a world of good.  
  
The fat general seated himself in one of the carved wooden chairs set before the desk. He remembered only a month previous when he had sat in the same chair, receiving orders from Victor the Fifth.  
  
"Please, help yourself to some tea, my dear general."  
  
Howe did, black with three lumps of sugar.  
  
"I take it you have come to apologize for declining my invitation to tonight's party. No doubt you have business in London, doing whatever it is you do when there is no one for your army to kill. And there is dear Lady Beatrice."  
  
Howe felt a slight shiver down his spine. There was something wrong about Victor. It was like he could reach inside one's head and pull out the thoughts that suited him at the time.  
  
"Yes, that was most of it." Howe drank some tea. "I also came because I want to know what you intend to do now that you have returned to England, once you've finished celebrating your father's death with most untimely parties."  
  
Victor flipped through a few more papers, opened a thick book, and compared several figures. After re-dipping his quill he made a few quick marks.  
  
"Your lordship?"  
  
"I heard you, Howe!" Victor snapped. "It's my lungs that trouble me, not my hearing."  
  
"Yes, your lordship."  
  
He pulled out a scarlet handkerchief and coughed slightly, then took another sip of "tea."  
  
"First I intend to make sense out of my father's accounts. He has left them in a most dreadful state. I owe twenty pounds to a man in Whitechapel. Whitechapel, Gen. Howe!"  
  
Howe scratched the back of his neck. He was well away of the late duke's love of women, particularly women of a lower class.  
  
"Then, I suppose I shall do what every dragoon is sworn to do, serve my king and my country. I have always fancied a foray into the world of privateering. I would invite you to join me, general, but I doubt that anything of that sort would interest a man such as yourself."  
  
Howe was dumbstruck.  
  
"Piracy, your lordship?"  
  
"Of course not! I mean to raid the French and the Americans in the name of England. That, my dear general, makes it privateering, not piracy. You need not worry. Should the king ever be in need of my services as a dragoon, he need only ask. My rapier is always well-sharpened."  
  
The general finished his tea and replaced the cup on the tray.  
  
"Are you sure about this, your lordship?"  
  
Victor's eyebrows contracted in annoyance. "You serve me, general. I will not have you questioning me more than I believe necessary. You may go now."  
  
And so the general left.  
  
"Look after him, de Fleur. Waiting two years? Letting Tavington regain his strength? It's madness! What good what purpose will a dashing display serve if he loses?"  
  
It took nearly six months for Victor to put the family accounts in order, so it wasn't until early 1782 that he set out on his latest campaign. Like most of his brief and passionate dedications, he enjoyed it thoroughly, and was somewhat disappointed when he received a letter from Gen. Howe in early 1783.  
  
Dear Victor,  
  
Your services as Grand High Dragoon of His Majesty's Golden Dragoons are required for the preservation and protection of the British Empire.  
  
Sincerely yours,  
  
Your humble servant, Sir William Howe 


	13. Motives

Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Thirteen: "Motives"  
  
It seemed to William Lucifer Tavington that he spent half his time bailing fools out of debtor's prison. The most recent case had involved an old "friend", Gen. O'Hara. Despite his depression, the former dragoon had been able to derive some sort of pleasure from seeing O'Hara suffering. It was what he deserved, Tavington concluded, and if there was on thing he liked, it was seeing people get exactly what they deserved. Seeing O'Hara locked up was a reaffirmation of his own superiority. He might be poor, he might have been of lower rank, but a he had enough sense to stay out of debtor's prison.  
  
After two years, the one man he never expected to see again was Mooreville. He had left the pendant. That was the sign, the unquestionable commitment. It said, simply, I renounce my position as a dragoon. He would have made the doctor so angry that he would have cursed the name of Tavington for the remainder of his days. He had given up. He had renounced his hereditary obligation. There was nothing Mooreville hated quite so much as a quitter.  
  
Upon returning from the debtor's prison, he found the old dragoon sitting in his law offices.  
  
"Damnation!" Tavington cursed. "He wants me to go back."  
  
Then there was the little voice in the back of his mind that wondered, "What if I want to go back?"  
  
Mooreville had changed. In the space of two years he had aged more than most men do in twenty. Most of his silver-gray hair had fallen out, leaving him comically bald, his red and green jacket was torn and patched in several places, and his boots were in desperate need of shining. He looked old, tired, and frustrated. There were deep wrinkles running through formerly smooth skin and age spots peppering the backs of his hands.  
  
"Good afternoon, Mr. Tavington," he said in a voice that spoke of weary travels and a foreboding sense of inevitable fate.  
  
"Mooreville?" he asked. The change was so great that Tavington could barely believe that it really was his old mentor.  
  
"Yes, it is me, Mr. Tavington. I know I'm not much to look at. Then again, I never was much to look at. Now I suppose I'm the sort of thing that people do their best to avoid looking at."  
  
Mr. Tavington? There was something distinctly unnatural about Mooreville calling him that. The doctor had called him many things, a great deal of them unpleasant, but never Mr. Tavington. It was too formal for a man like Mooreville.  
  
"What do you want?" Tavington asked, taking a seat behind his desk. "Don't tell me you're in dept too."  
  
Mooreville rubbed his eyes; there were dark circles underneath indicating a lack of sleep.  
  
"Finances are the least of my worries at the moment. I'm so glad that you are alive and looking much better than the last time I saw you. You nearly look like your old self again. But I'm rambling. Have you heard about Lord Cornwallis?"  
  
"No, but I saw Gen. O'Hara only a few minutes ago."  
  
"Is he in the debtor's prison?"  
  
Tavington couldn't help but smile. "Yes, actually."  
  
The old dragoon buried his face in his hands. The fingernails were dirty and the palms each sported several scratches. After a while he looked up again and said, "He never was quite right after Lord Cornwallis made him carry out most of the surrender. The poor boy couldn't handle that kind of blow to his dignity. He's had money problems ever since he returned to England. I think he's lost without his military career."  
  
O'Hara had seemed lost, stretched out in a cell, taking swigs from a bottle of cheap liquor and singing a most ridiculous song, all the while flinging foul Irish curses directed at his lordship.  
  
"Now, since you haven't heard the latest news, I suppose I'm going to have to be the one to break it to you. They made Cornwallis Governor-General and Commander-in-Chief of India."  
  
"India's what he deserves. It's hot and crawling with natives. His lordship won't like that at all. It's also one of the few things that proves our Parliament still has some sense. He won't order so many new jackets in India. At the rate he was going in America, I believe that's what they're calling it now, he would have bankrupted England."  
  
Despite his fatigue, Mooreville managed a rough laugh. "You're right, but there's more to it than that. I know Cornwallis and you know Cornwallis. Tell me, what will the man do in India?" He didn't pause for an answer. "I'll tell you what he'll do. He'll throw grand parties at Government House, he'll take in the local festivals, and waste hours each day penning his pathetic memoirs! All the while the lands which we have fought so hard to win from the natives will slowly be reclaimed. Pretty soon the entire country will be overrun with hindoos and flesh-eaters again."  
  
Tavington thought for a moment. "Surely with his military training he can fend off a few natives."  
  
Mooreville's eyes grew wide. "Listen to yourself, William! Have you become so blind in only two years? You served under Cornwallis. If anyone could see the man beneath the impressive exterior, it was you. Cornwallis couldn't defeat a group of rebels armed with pitchforks and antique muskets. Who did he turn to, William? As always, when it came time to break the rules, he turned to the dragoons."  
  
Finding that Mooreville's rambling was becoming tedious, Tavington sighed and finally asked, "What is it you want, Mooreville? If you only came here to discuss your dislike of Lord Cornwallis, then you may go, I have more important things to do."  
  
The doctor reached into his pocket, pulled out the discarded pendant and slammed it down on the desk. CLACK!  
  
"I want you to put that thing back on and get back to doing what you do best, burning, plotting, fighting, and breaking the rules. You are the Grand High Dragoon of His Majesty's Green Dragoons, and whether you like it or not that's what you'll be till you die! I can't run from it; you can't run from it! You owe it to England, but if you won't do it for England, then do it for yourself, Your Lordship, General William Tavington, vice- governor-general of India!"  
  
For once, Tavington was dumbstruck, a slightly embarrassing moment.  
  
"General?" he asked.  
  
"Yes, the Council of Dragoons met last night. We concluded that you can no longer be expected to serve 'under' Cornwallis. If you are to do the job we intend for you to do, you must be something nearing an equal."  
  
"And what exactly is this job you have in mind for me?" Tavington asked, his jade eyes lighting up.  
  
"I thought a title would appeal to you. The Council is also prepared to pay off your father's debts in full, restore your property to you, and do its best to bring a bit of esteem back to you family. In return, we want you to go to India. You are to command half of the divisions of cavalry there and supervise the organization of the regular army. Any decisions regarding the administration and actions of the government that are approved by Cornwallis must be approved by you as well. In this way, we believe that we will be able to save India from suffering at the hands of Cornwallis. It is a most valuable possession of the British Empire. Cornwallis is simply not the man to run it."  
  
"Then why is he?" Tavington asked though he already knew the answer.  
  
"Where else could they send him? He lost in the colonies, but he is still a nobleman, they can't just cast him aside."  
  
"So they decided to ship him somewhere seemingly out of harm's way?"  
  
"Precisely."  
  
Several minutes passed while Tavington considered Mooreville's proposal. He glanced out of the window of the law office. Women emerged from the bakery with baskets filled with fresh loaves of bread, boys came and went from the wig shop, making deliveries of freshly curled and powdered wigs. Discarded newspapers were trampled underfoot. Children ran about idly. This was London, as he saw it everyday through that window. The dragoon was bored with it, and there was no desirable future to be found hidden somewhere within the labyrinth of streets. There would be the minor fees he could charge for freeing a man from debtor's prison. There were the tiny rooms above where he lived, and where he would die if he chose to stay.  
  
Mooreville's offer was good. Though, perhaps a bit too good.  
  
"Making me a general, paying off my father's debts, giving me the chance to get even with Cornwallis and gain a bit of personal glory; it all seems a bit too good of a reward for simply agreeing to return to commanding the dragoons."  
  
Mooreville sighed so heavily that the air in the room became more oppressive.  
  
"There is something else."  
  
"I thought there would be."  
  
"You won't exactly be vice-governor-general, you will be more of a co-vice- governor-general. This is because the Council of Dragoons does not only govern the Green Dragoons, there are other dragoons, most specifically."  
  
He trailed off. Untalented as he was at reading emotions, Tavington could tell that Mooreville was preparing himself to recount the story that he found so painful and offensive to his senses. In what could be a considered an act of consideration, if he hadn't done it out of a desire not to sit through the narrative again, Tavington decided to spare the old man the trouble.  
  
"The Golden Dragoons?"  
  
Now, it was Mooreville's turn at being dumbstruck.  
  
"Bordon told me," Tavington explained quickly. "He told me when I first returned to London. Do they still have that much influence? The Duke of Fairenvail is dead."  
  
Mooreville crossed himself, something no one had ever seen him do.  
  
"No William, the man who killed you grandfather is dead. The late Duke of Fairenvail proved himself a more capable tactician than I. He had a son. The House of Carrenworth still stands, and I have reason to believe that it is this son, Victor Alexander Carrenworth VI, is directly responsible for the murder of James Bordon. I had the misfortune of meeting him once, a pathetic, sickly little man, but his skill with a blade is unmatched. He can turn a rapier into liquid steal. And if that wasn't enough, he's a complete egomaniac and teetering on the edge of the precipice of madness."  
  
"And he will serve beside me as co-vice-governor-general?"  
  
"Not only that, but I am certain he intends to kill you. He is a Carrenworth, and therefore sworn to the destruction of all who bear the name Tavington."  
  
Tavington took the pendant from the edge of the desk and held it up. The silver dragon twirled on its chain like a chained dog trying to reach its master. He observed it for a few moments, thinking. It was a big decision, but he knew he had already made it. Without another thought the restored dragoon fastened the chain around his neck. It was heavy and cold, very much like the time he had first put it on, twelve years ago.  
  
"I knew you would do it," the old man gave a sigh of relief.  
  
"Carrenworth shouldn't pose much of a threat," he mused. "I would like to have a word with him anyway. One Bordon dead is bad enough."  
  
"Spoken like a man who has never faced a Carrenworth in battle. Don't think it's going to be easy. The journey to India is six months long and the whole country is infested with heathen and disease. And speaking of Bordons, I will try my best to find you a suitable second-in-command. I know I cannot replace Henry."  
  
Tavington pulled a record book out of a drawer and flipped through the pages with purpose. "That won't be necessary, Mooreville. I have already found a suitable replacement for Bordon."  
  
"Certainly you don't mean," Mooreville hesitated, afraid to say it. "O'Hara?"  
  
"The same," Tavington replied. "Who better? He understands old man Cornwallis better than anyone."  
  
Though he would never admit it, Tavington had always possessed a certain love of irony. 


	14. Another Unexpected Return

Carrenworth: The Vengeance: Chapter Fourteen: "Another Unexpected Return"  
  
Capt. Henry Bordon, long thought dead, paced back and forth uneasily. He was in a precarious situation, in the belly of the beast, as his father the late James Bordon would have said. Still, when he considered the alternatives, starvation, damnation, and Tavington, Bordon found his current position something close to bliss.  
  
He felt out of place. This house was too big and too well furnished. The servants dressed better than he ever had. The captain selected a cake from the tea tray one of the well-dressed servants had brought and nibbled on the edges a bit. He wasn't that hungry, and since they had been made more for decoration than actual ingestion the cakes weren't that tasty anyway.  
  
There was window of impressive size set in the north wall. Bordon walked over and peered out. Several gardeners were going about their duties, pulling weeds, pruning innumerable rose bushes. It was nice, and he thought he could get used to it, as gaudy and wasteful as it seemed at first. It takes a certain kind of man to appreciate a house like this. It occurred to Bordon that Tavington was not one of those men. He liked money, he liked power, but he would not have put so much thought into the subtle artistry of the place. It was the way things were arranged that gave off that aura of majesty.  
  
"Do you like it, dear Capt. Bordon?"  
  
"It's very impressive, sir," Bordon admitted, turning his attention from the window to the red-haired aristocrat stretched across one of the room's many plush sofas.  
  
"I would beg your pardon for entertaining you in military attire, but seeing as you are dressed similarly yourself I believe there is no need."  
  
"What's wrong with it?" Bordon asked, genuinely puzzled.  
  
"Nothing, I suppose, if one is used to it as you Green Dragoons seem to be. In most circles it is considered impolite, if not odd, to entertain guests while armed," he toyed a bit with the gold-plated hilt of his rapier.  
  
Bordon had never been one to give much thought to things like etiquette, but he thought the golden dragoon had a point.  
  
"Now, I understand you have a most unusual request to make. Very well then, make your request, though I must assure you that if it involves any demands from your master I will have no choice but to deny."  
  
My master. The words stung Bordon's soul. They reminded him of how far past redemption he had wandered.  
  
"It is about my former commander in a way," Bordon answered. "But it doesn't have anything to do with any demands of his. I am no longer a Green Dragoon, sir. I have renounced my ways, and Tavington. Everything I ever did in his service I look back on with such loathing that had I the courage I would take a knife and rip that pulsing mass of disgust from my being."  
  
Victor smiled. He had always been the sort who enjoyed vivid imagery. "And I always thought of the Green Dragoons as a representation of the very embodiment of loyalty itself. You follow without questioning, and unless I am mistaken, Capt. Bordon, you have come here with the intention of pledging your loyalty to an order that is dedicated to the destruction of your former leader."  
  
Bordon cleared his throat and poured some tea, which he drank in one gulp.  
  
"Forgive me, sir. I don't like to discuss such things. I'm ashamed of what I was," he went back to the window and stared out for a while, studying the blue sky, searching the heavens for divine inspiration. "I stood by. I did nothing. He burnt down a church full of innocent people. He made Mr. Wilkins kill his neighbors! And I did nothing to stop him. I could have stopped him, but I didn't."  
  
"Don't blame yourself, captain. He would have killed you if you had tried to stop him."  
  
Bordon continued to stare out the window. Clouds were gathering. It was only a matter of time before the rain.  
  
"Not if I'd killed him first."  
  
* * *  
  
One month later, Capt. Henry Bordon stood with his fellow dragoons in the midst of the bustling shipyards. He straightened the sleeves of his new uniform. The Golden Dragoons wore jackets similar to the Green Dragoons, only the trim was black and adorned with a considerable amount of gold brocade. The captain noticed that he was the only one carrying a saber instead of the traditional rapier of the order. Unlike Tavington, Victor had been understanding.  
  
"Just keep your saber, my dear Bordon. You will be quite useless in a fight with an unfamiliar weapon and it takes years to learn to wield a rapier properly."  
  
Bordon looked to his new commander. Gen. Lord Carrenworth was talking in his usual animated fashion with a man who appeared to be the captain of the ship they would be sailing on. The captain was accompanied by another man who wore thick glasses and kept interrupting with questions concerning the transportation goods and the distribution of cargo in the holds. Victor proved himself capable of carrying on both conversations simultaneously.  
  
"Yes, we will be sailing this morning."  
  
"Put those below with the other barrels containing foodstuffs."  
  
"Yes, I have seen to the crewmen's payroll."  
  
De Fleur, the other dragoon captain, dressed in full military uniform for the first time since Bordon had met him, stood dutifully behind, and a bit to the right of his master. Without powder on his hair he looked more like how one would imagine an assassin. His stringy black hair was quite long, and tied back in a simple ponytail, not braided.  
  
"Is that man the captain?" Bordon inquired of a young dragoon named Pierson. He pointed toward the man who was presently engaged in questioning Gen. Lord Carrenworth concerning the crewmen's salaries.  
  
"No, captain," Pierson replied without hesitation. "That's the first mate, Bertram. He's talking to the captain, though."  
  
"I meant the captain of the ship," Bordon remarked, certain that the young dragoon had misunderstood him.  
  
Pierson rolled his eyes. Bordon's ignorance was lamentable. "Gen. Lord Carrenworth is the captain of the Weeping Maiden. He was a privateer before he was a dragoon. The Weeping Maiden was his favorite ship. They say she's indestructible."  
  
Bordon was impressed. He would have been surprised, but he had heard enough stories about Carrenworth that he wasn't. It made sense. The duke seemed the perfect type to go about seizing foreign ships for the fun of it.  
  
Suddenly, Bordon caught something in the corner of his left eye, a slight flash of green. Risking a quick glance, what he saw nearly caused him to faint right there, in front of his new comrades in arms.  
  
Gen. William Tavington, accompanied by sixty or so armed dragoons entered confidently onto the scene, the crowd swerving to avoid a potentially deadly collision. He looked a bit different than when Bordon had last seen him. He was thinner, and a bit paler, but there was a new aura of confidence surrounding him that, to be honest, frightened Bordon considerably. More disturbingly, however, was the man standing alongside the Grand High Green Dragoon, even without his wig, there was no mistaking Gen. O'Hara. With the air of a victorious conqueror, Tavington surveyed the shipyards.  
  
"A lovely day to begin a voyage," Gen. O'Hara commented with a smile.  
  
Bordon diverted his gaze, fixing it on Gen. Lord Carrenworth instead of Tavington, and fervently prayed that the green dragoon would not notice him.  
  
"Could you hold that thought for moment, my dear Bertram?" Victor interrupted his first-mate who was still rambling about money.  
  
He left Bertram under the watchful eyes of de Fleur and hurried over to where the green dragoons were congregated, his new boots making sharp tapping sounds on the wooden planking.  
  
"You must be General William Lucifer Tavington," he said, bowing so low that a thick red curl managed to escape from his neat braid, and hang in its proper place between his eyes. "We meet at last!"  
  
"You must be Carrenworth," Tavington said, unbending, his voice dripping with disdain.  
  
Victor's ability to display every emotion from joy, to deceit, to fury surged to the surface. Carrenworth? Had that commoner, that peasant, dared to dispense with his title? Subconsciously, his hand grasped the hilt of his rapier.  
  
Staring at the young nobleman who was fixing him with a furious glare, Tavington said the words without thinking.  
  
"Before this is over, I'm going to kill you."  
  
There was the metallic hiss of a weapon being drawn.  
  
"Why wait, then?" Victor questioned. "Kill me now if you are so determined." He raised his blade so that the tip brushed gently against the green scarf Tavington wore around his neck.  
  
There was a collective gasp from the assembled dragoons of both parties. O'Hara reached for his own sword. De Fleur slipped one of the poisoned knives secreted about his person into his hand.  
  
"Very soon, Carrenworth," Tavington snapped, then turning to his second-in- command, "O'Hara."  
  
The Green Dragoons turned as one and began making their way toward an awaiting ship.  
  
"I won't stand for this!" Victor cried, pulling a golden throwing knife from his belt. With a graceful flick of the wrist, he sent it flying through the air, cutting the feathers neatly off the side of Tavington's helmet.  
  
There was a flash of steal. Tavington's lips curled into an expression of fury nearly equal to that of Victor.  
  
"So you can't wait to die?"  
  
He rushed at the golden dragoon, drew his saber back, and swung it with enough force to slice Carrenworth's red-haired head clean off. Then came the impact. Burning pain surged through his left shoulder, he dropped the saber, and retreated backwards a few steps, staring in horror and shock at the knife that had seemingly materialized in his left shoulder.  
  
"You should be thankful that was not one of dear de Fleur's knives," Victor hissed. "His are poisoned. You can keep that one. Consider it something of a souvenir, and as a taste of things to come." He sheathed his rapier. "I certainly hope your skills improve substantially before the occasion comes when we face one another again. Otherwise, I shall have no fun at all. Isn't that right, Captain Bordon?"  
  
Bordon, who had been watching intently along with the others, could do nothing to disguise his identity now. He stared at Tavington, Tavington stared back, their gazes locked.  
  
"Bordon?" Tavington whispered.  
  
"Yes, Bordon, and if I may say so, you have lost a very talent officer, dear Tavington." Victor took another bow, this one more for the audience of dragoons. "Farewell Tavington, until that distant day in distant India. Until we meet again!"  
  
Victor turned, confident that none of the green dragoons were willing to risk taking him out with a pistol shot in the middle of suck a large crowd. He was right. Their collective attentions were focused on their injured commander as O'Hara hurried forward to help.  
  
"And now, my fellow dragoons," Victor said with another of his twisted, maniacal smiles, "to India!"  
  
The majority of the Golden Dragoons applauded their leader's marvelous performance. Bordon, risking another glance at Tavington as he pulled the knife from his shoulder, was one of the few who didn't. 


	15. The Golden Dragoons at Sea

Carrenworth: The Vengeance: Chapter Fifteen: The Golden Dragoons at Sea  
  
Capt. Henry Bordon paced back and forth along the foredeck of the Weeping Maiden, staring out at the sea, observing the white-capped waves off in the distance. He had never liked sailing. One of his cousins on his mother's side had experienced the unfortunate fate of drowning. Apparently his mother had been present at the scene of the dreadful accident and as a result she had developed an irrational fear of water, a phobia she had imparted on her son, only in a milder form.  
  
He was thankful that, unlike some of the other Golden dragoons, he was not susceptible to sea sickness. There was nothing worse than being nervous and sick at the same time. Bordon tried to take a deep breath of the fresh sea-air to help calm his nerves but was instead greeted by a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. The captain often wondered if his wounded lung would ever heal completely. He tried to forget the war in America, to blot out all the painful memories. After three years, he found that he no longer thought about it daily, but there were those nights when he couldn't sleep, when he would lie awake and the horrible visions would flash before his eyes. The church, the fire, the screaming, that blond patriot boy inserting that knife neatly between his ribs; and though he cursed Tavington and his senseless brutality he wished that he had killed that boy, Gabriel Martin. It was a selfish thought, but Bordon could not help but entertain the possibilities.  
  
It had been three months since they had seen England. Leaving so soon had helped to dull the pain of his father's death and lessen the frequency of his nightmares of America; and he had never given a second thought to his decision to join up with the Golden Dragoons. Taken in total, they were a much more relaxed collection of fellows. They talked quite openly about their past mistresses, swallowed several pints of ale each in the evenings, and whiled away the hours aboard ship with card games and friendly bouts of sword fighting.  
  
In a most unTavington-like fashion, Gen. Carrenworth sometimes participated in the contests among his men, and he nearly always won, except when it came to drinking. Bordon had never seen his new commander drink anything except the occasional glass of white wine. He wasn't the sort to get drunk despite the tendency of nearly all of his dragoons. He didn't seem to eat either. Pierson often bragged that he had nearly beaten Carrenworth in one of the sword fighting tournaments, but the other dragoons were quick to point out the fact that "nearly beating" meant lasting longer than thirty seconds, Pierson had managed a minute.  
  
"Don't be ridiculous!" Bordon had exclaimed. "I've seen Pierson fight. He's good; in fact, he's the best I've ever seen. A minute? Come now, no one's THAT good!"  
  
"His lordship is!" All of the dragoons were quick to respond.  
  
Bordon wanted to see a demonstration, but it seemed unlikely. Though the duke had proven himself fully capable of managing a regiment of dragoons, an entire crew of sailors, and carrying on as many as three conversations simultaneously, doing such things did seem to take up most of his time. What little spare time he did have he seemed to spend in studying thick tomes of military strategy and reports concerning various happenings in India.  
  
Bordon respected Gen. Carrenworth, and yet under that respect was a feeling he couldn't explain, and feeling that stemmed from a perception that there was something not quite right about the man. The captain couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something about those eyes, about that voice, and about that demeanor that hinted at the one possibility he dared not consider. madness.  
  
* * *  
  
The sea air was sharp, crisp, and refreshing. It pulled at strands of the assassin de Fleur's oily black hair, and flipped the collar of his coat into his expressionless face more often than he would have liked. De Fleur was the sort of man who seldom spoke, a trait that could either be interpreted as proving that a person was a bit dull-witted, shy, or so keen an observer that there was little need for words, which happened to be the fact in de Fleur's case.  
  
He had been observing everyone since he came aboard, Pierson, the crew, his master, but more than anyone, the assassin had focused his attentions on Bordon.  
  
"Never trust a Green Dragoon," his former master had often reminded him. "They are a tricky lot. They are apt to pledge false loyalty. Never, not even for an instant take your eyes off one, or you'll end up with a knife in your back."  
  
Who would know better than the old master, de Fleur thought, who would know better than the dragoon-slayer himself. That was what they had affectionately dubbed him after the triumph over William XI. De Fleur missed him greatly. Even the great assassin found himself incapable of doing away with all forms of human emotion.  
  
The old master had been a man of sense, a man of brilliance, and a man of simplicity. He drank his tea black, tied back his hair with the same black ribbon, and displayed only one emotion, the very pinnacle of emotional perfection, indifference in its purest form. For all of that, de Fleur had respected him. Now he felt nothing but loathing for the poor old man's son.  
  
For as perfect as the fifth Duke of Fairenvail had been, his son was equally flawed. Emotions were flaws, overbearing egos were flaws, and trusting a Green Dragoon was the biggest flaw of them all.  
  
He had been awoken several times during the night by the sound of his new master coughing up blood in the cabin next-door. Despite the fact that he did not appreciate having his sleep interrupted de Fleur derived some sort of twisted satisfaction from his master's suffering. The sooner the boy died the better. It would be the end of the Golden Dragoons, but de Fleur would rather have them fade into the background than suffer the humiliating defeat to which their new leader would inevitably lead them.  
  
* * *  
  
Victor Alexander Carrenworth was lying in bed, feeling quite possibly more hopelessly wretched than he had in years. He wanted to sleep, but the throbbing in his head and the burning in his lungs prevented him from seeking solace in the only place where he was not plagued by thoughts of mortality, less than loyal servants, and being forgotten.  
  
"What happens when you die?" he often wondered. "If you are lucky, you are mourned for a little while. In the end, however, you are forgotten. No one remember who you are, what you loved, what you wanted."  
  
He thought back fondly to his years as a privateer, events that seemed to have taken place in a different lifetime. There had been a time when he could climb stairs without becoming short of breath, when he could practice with his rapier for hours on end, when he could be the captain, the navigator, and the helmsman.  
  
"And now I'm dying," Victor admitted, tears pooling in his blue eyes. "I'm twenty-four and I'm dying. It's not fair. It's just not fair!" He buried his face in a pillow and cried until he was seized with horrible fit of coughing, during which he nearly lost consciousness. Finally, exhausted and still trying to blink away the sparks that were dancing about the edges of his vision, he fell asleep. 


	16. The Last Cockney

The Legacy: Book Two: Chapter One: "The Last Cockney"  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: For the characters presented in this chapter, I have done my best to recreate cockney in written form. Forgive any errors, and please e- mail me if you have any trouble understanding what the characters are saying. Enjoy!  
  
"Bloody 'ell!" Thomas Ridgeford Thompson (of the Liverpool Thompsons) exclaimed.  
  
Receiving a sharp blow to the back of the head is never a pleasant way of waking up. Sadly, it was a way of waking up that Thomas Thompson had grown accustomed to.  
  
"Eh, Oi'm gettin' ta work!"  
  
He pulled his tall, lanky body into a sitting position. Expecting to see his employer, Mr. Garron the printer, he was instead greeted by the round, smiling, often red-nosed face of his friend Tucker. No one knew whether Tucker was his first name or his last name, seeing as it was the only name he ever gave anyone. When confronted about it, he would simply say, "Tucka's good enough for the like a' ya!"  
  
"Bloody 'ell, Tucka'!" Thompson cried, rubbing the lump forming on the back of his head. "What'd ya 'it me in the 'ead for? Oi! It ain't toim for work yet." He reached into his pocket for his watch, forgetting that he'd had to sell it a few days ago to help Tucker pay for a couple of glasses he had 'accidentally' broken down at the local pub. Thompson was always the sort to help out a friend, seeing as friends didn't come easily.  
  
"I ain't toim for work, thank God!" Tucker replied. He pulled a bottle of cheap wine from somewhere in his ragged clothes and took suck a violent swig that some of the liquid missed his mouth and spilled onto Thompson's coat.  
  
"Careful Tucka, this is me good jacket!"  
  
"It's ya only jacket."  
  
Thompson thought about this for a moment.  
  
"So it'd best be me good one then!"  
  
Tucker secreted the bottle away. Thompson fumbled around in the dark for his glasses, a pair of round lenses set in a battered wire frame that he perched on the end of his long, pointed nose. It wasn't that the cockney needed glasses, he had simply found them on the street several years ago and upon trying them on discovered that they made him look considerably more dignified.  
  
Thompson's living quarters were impressive for a man of his social class, especially a man who had left England to seek his fortune in a far off exotic colony. The small room was attached to Garron's Printing Shop and often grew mercilessly hot during the day, but it had a bed, a washbasin, and a table. That was more furniture than most of India's poor could even dream about, though it was considerably less than Thompson was used to, having been raised by his beloved 'Aunt' Morganna.  
  
"What is it ya wanted, Tucka?" Thompson asked, adjusted his glasses to achieve a look that was something between dignified and ridiculous. He had a long face that his eyes were far too small for. The glasses did help a bit.  
  
"'Ave ya 'eard the news?" Tucker asked. Like most of his class, he had a very high tolerance for alcohol and despite the fact that he had drunken several men under the table that night, his speech was unaffected, or maybe it was just impossible to detect beneath his thick cockney.  
  
"Oi ain't 'eard the news. What new are ya talkin' 'bout, Tucka?"  
  
"Oi! Bloody 'ell, Thompson you're the most ignorant cockney Oi now, and that's sayin' quoit a bit!"  
  
"Tell me the new already, Tucka! Oi gotta work in the mornin'. Oi can't be stayin' up all bloody noight now!"  
  
A wicked yet good-natured smile spread across Tucker's round features.  
  
"Ya could foind out for yourself, ya know. Why should Oi tell ya?"  
  
"Tucka! Ya woke me up ta tell me!"  
  
The drunken cockney stroked his chin, which was badly in need of a shave. "Oi woke ya up ta tell ya that there was news, not what it was. But Oi could be pur-saude-ed ta tell ya, for a point or two."  
  
Thompson was indignant. "Now Tucka, ya know Oi ain't go no money!"  
  
Tucker brought out his wine bottle and took another swig, a less messy one this time. "Ya gots a job! What does Mista Garron pay ya in? Pois*?"  
  
(*Roughly, the cockney pronunciation of the word pies, a dessert Thompson happened to be quite fond of.)  
  
A dreamy look came over Thompson's face. "Oi wish 'e poid me in pois. I loik pois, they're me favorite."  
  
Though the two cockneys had known each other for many years, there were still times went Tucker was utterly annoyed by Thompson's love of desserts.  
  
"Oh, get off Thompson! Bloody 'ell, ya can afford a point!"  
  
"And Oi think you've 'ad one too many points tonoight, Tucka!"  
  
"Them's 'arsh words, Thompson! A man can neva 'ave too many points in an evenin'."  
  
"They can, Tucka." Thompson considered himself something of an expert on alcoholism, the only education he had received has a young child came from his mother in the form of directions to the local pub so that he could fetch a pint of ale whenever she might desire one. "Me mum was always passed out on the couch when Oi was a boy. 'Ell, she's probably passed out on the couch now. Not that Oi would know, seein' as she's quite a distance awoy, but that's where Oi'd guess she is roight now."  
  
Tucker finished off his wine and wiped his lips with the back of a filthy hand. His face was filthy enough already that it made little difference.  
  
"Come on, Tucka. Just tell me what's goin' on so Oi can get back ta sleep. If Oi don't get ta sleep then Oi can't work, and if Oi can't work then Oi can't boi ya any points and Oi can't boi meself any pois."  
  
Unable to deny the logic in this argument, though his skills in the department of logic were considerably lacking, Tucker decided to get on with it.  
  
"Rememba 'ow you told me that before ya met me you was a manservant to a guy 'oo was a green dragoon?"  
  
Thompson's baby blue eyes lit up. "Ya mean Tavin'ton?"  
  
"Aye, that was 'is name. Well, they woi I 'eard it down at the pub, the guvna-genral is bloody angry 'cause the guvment back in England thinks 'e's such a idyit that they've sent two otha genrals ta take charge of the Bri'ish army 'ere in Indya. An' I 'eard tell that one of 'em's a green dragoon, Oi think they said 'is name was Tavin'ton, or somethin' loik that."  
  
Thompson jumped out of bed, and a couple feet into the air, nearly receiving another bump on the head from the low ceiling.  
  
"Tavin'ton! Me old best friend!" he cried. "Oh Tucka, that's the best news Oi ever got woken up ta 'ere!"  
  
"There's more," Tucker added quickly, "Thoi say that the ship carryin' the green dragoons 'as just landed down at ole Fort William. The guvna-genral an' all 'is staff 'ave gone down there ta meet 'em. Thoi say that ole Lord Cornwallis said that if the Bri'ish guvment is gonna make 'im put up with that bloody dragoon bastard again, then 'e's gonna shoot 'imself! Oi'm goin' down ta the docks! It's been a while since Oi've seen a good shootin'!"  
  
"Tucka, ya ain't neva seen a shootin'," Thompson reminded his friend.  
  
"Loik Oi said, it's been a while!"  
  
Thompson didn't hear his friend's reply. He spat on his hands and ran them through his unruly blond curls. There, much better. Oftentimes, Thompson's hair gave him more trouble than his nearly comical height or his glasses. The stuff grew like a mass of unbendable wires.  
  
He splashed his face with water and dried it on the bedclothes and took a quick look in the cracked mirror hanging on the wall. Finding himself presentable, Thompson turned to Tucker, who was wandering about the room, trying to locate any secret place where Thompson might be hiding liquor.  
  
"Come on, Tucka!"  
  
Tucker rubbed the back of his neck. "Where we goin', Thompson? We're goin' to the docks ain't we? Oi though ya 'ad work in the mornin'."  
  
"Oi! Oi do! But somethings is more important than work, loik seein' me old best friend!"  
  
"But Thompson, rememba what ya said about if ya didn't work then ya couldn't boi me points?"  
  
"Oi rememba! Don't ya unda'stand anything, Tucka? Oi ain't got ta work for Mista Garron no more. If Tavin'ton's 'ere then Oi gots me ole job back!"  
  
Without another word, which was rare for them, the two cockneys set out into the night. They crept through streets where natives were preparing for market and through back alleys filled with opium addicts. The scent of exotic spices and animal waste wafted through the air. Finally they emerged near the decaying docks at Old Fort William. Anchored in the harbor was the most impressive ship either cockney had ever seen, long and studded with monstrous black cannon. Red sails hung from the masts.  
  
"Bloody 'ell!" they both exclaimed as one.  
  
"Bloody hell!" Governor-General Lord Cornwallis exclaimed in a nearly instinctive response.  
  
He stood at the front of a massive crowd that had gathered, made up of both Britons and natives alike. Despite the heat he wore a heavily decorated red jacket. He was flanked on both sides by his two aides, traditional older military men, Generals Lawrence and Bauer.  
  
"It's damned impressive," Lawrence said scratching his protruding belly. "I've heard that this Carrenworth is more of a showman than the last one. They weren't kidding."  
  
"I suppose that when you're a duke you can afford to build any kind of ship you might want," Gen. Bauer, who was as bony as Lawrence was fat, mused.  
  
"I don't like it," Cornwallis whispered to his aides. "A ship like that says that the owner cares too much for his own image."  
  
"Yes, my dear Lord Cornwallis, I do care quite a bit for my image. Every man should. Why a man's own image reflects upon the image of his country, does it not?"  
  
The eyes of the crowd snapped upward almost simultaneously, including those of the two cockneys who were craning their necks to get a better view. All those dozens of pairs of eyes fixed their gazes on the pale, red-haired man leaning against the railing of the ship. Cornwallis recognized him immediately, though they had never met before the boy's blue eyes and thick red hair identified him as a Carrenworth, and more than likely a Carrenworth with the talent.  
  
"In fact, my dear Cornwallis, you appear to be a man who is most concerned with his appearance, as well."  
  
The governor-general's face flushed red with embarrassment, an uncommon occurrence for the normally composed Cornwallis.  
  
"It is certainly a pleasure to meet you at long last, your lordship." Cornwallis bowed. Lawrence and Bauer followed suit.  
  
Always a man who liked to get the unpleasant things in life over and done with so that he might move on to more pleasant ones, Cornwallis wasted no time in asking the question he had dreaded asking.  
  
"And where is Col. Tavington?"  
  
"You must mean General Tavington," Victor corrected. He had always derived some form of pleasure from delivering bad news.  
  
"Yes, General Tavington." The governor-general coughed a couple of times in an attempt to remove the bad taste the words had left in his mouth.  
  
Victor's twisted smile, dimmed for several months of depression, resurfaced.  
  
"Ya were roight, Tucka!" Thompson told his friend. "Tavin'ton really is comin' 'ere, 'ere ta Indya!"  
  
"Bloody 'ell, Thompson, you know I only loi when Oi'm drunk!" "I'm afraid that dear Gen. Tavington has been delayed, his ship was damaged in the most recent storm. However, I had the good fortune of coming upon his ship and convincing him to allow his second in command to finish the journey to India with my dragoons so that he might extend the noble sentiments of the Green Dragoons, reaffirm their loyalty to the British Crown, and their dedication to serve your noble lordship."  
  
"Well, where is this second in command?" the governor-general inquired.  
  
Victor glanced backwards and whispered something that none of the assembled could hear. Another man stepped forward, dressed in the uniform of the green dragoons. Lord Cornwallis' tongue caught in his throat. His eyes stared from their sockets. After several awkward seconds, during which Gen. Bauer had been fishing around in his pockets for some smelling salts since it seemed highly likely that the governor-general would faint, Cornwallis drew in a deep breath. Victor pulled one of those odd scarlet handkerchiefs from his sleeve and coughed into it.  
  
"O'Hara?" Cornwallis croaked.  
  
O'Hara did not flinch. He kept his composure despite the dueling emotions threatening to tear the very fiber of his being apart. The green dragoon stepped to the railing, looked down at his former commander, and announced, "I am Capt. O'Hara, Green Dragoons. I represent General William Tavington XIII, Commander of the Green Dragoons. My commander wishes for me to tell you that we have come to India under direct orders of the British Government and that we are prepared to serve the British Empire in whatever capacity your lordship sees fit."  
  
Try as he might, Cornwallis couldn't speak. His tongue had turned to rubber and his mind could only think one thought. O'Hara. O'Hara had betrayed him.  
  
"If ponies rode men, and if grass ate cows, And cats should be chased into holes by the mouse. Summer were spring, and the other way 'round, Then all the world would be upside down."*  
  
General's Lawrence and Bauer stared at the governor-general. They were the only ones who had heard what we was mumbling under his breath, and thought it an odd bit of poetry for such an occasion.  
  
*Thanks, MKawaii!!! 


	17. Arete, part II

India: The Second Colonial War: Chapter Seventeen: "Arête, part II"  
  
Unable to control his anger, Lord Cornwallis brought his fist down on the desk so hard that the floor shook. The wine in Victor Alexander Carrenworth's glass, which was sitting on a nearby table, rippled lazily. The desk, however, was unaffected. It still stood a solid as the day it had been built. Some things are always constant. Some things are built to last.  
  
"Why can't people be like that?" Lord Cornwallis wondered. "Why can't people be constant in their loyalties?"  
  
He hit the desk again.  
  
"Will you kindly cease with that absolutely pointless banging?" Victor snapped irritably, raising his blue eyes for a better look at the governor- general. "I have the most dreadful head ache and you are only making it worse."  
  
"Forgive me, your lordship," Cornwallis said apologetically. "It's just that."  
  
"O'Hara?" Carrenworth volunteered.  
  
"Yes, O'Hara."  
  
Victor had heard of O'Hara but hadn't met him until the Weeping Maiden had come upon the remains of the Green Dragoon's ship several days before. Overall he had been impressed, O'Hara carried himself with dignity despite the company he chose to associate with. He had a certain percentage of noble blood. The old Duke of Fairenvail had said he was the illegitimate son of some baron. The old man had never bothered with the names of barons, considering them too close to commoners. Though Victor imagined that being half-noble was better than being completely common. Tavingtons were completely common.  
  
"He was your former aide, correct?" Victor asked, remembering the British Army organizational chart his father had forced him to memorize. How many hours of his mortality had he spent on that filthy chart?  
  
The sun had been up for a couple of hours and the heat was just beginning to become oppressive. Lord Cornwallis peeled off his dress jacket.  
  
"Yes, you could call him that. He was always so loyal, so eager to serve the crown. Now all of that talent has gone to waste. He's in the service of that. that."  
  
"Barbarian?"  
  
"Yes, precisely."  
  
Victor sipped his wine and observed the governor-general over the rim of his glass. He looked very much the same as Victor remembered him. The Golden Dragoon had been ten, hiding in the small sitting room attached to his father's study, watching the scene unfold through the slightly opened door.  
  
Despite the fact that there were many women who considered him the most handsome man in Britain, Victor Carrenworth had not been a pleasant-looking child. A miraculous transformation had seemingly occurred between the ages of sixteen and eighteen that made him the dashing duke that sat in the office of Governor-General Cornwallis. As a child he had a head that was altogether too large for his body and a pair of too large eyes to go with it. His pale complexion was subject to producing a dreadfully thick crop of freckles regardless of how little time he spent out of doors.  
  
"So, we agree then?" his father asked, winding his serpentine body around the chair where Lord Cornwallis was sitting.  
  
"Yes, my lord. He is the one responsible for what happened to my dear niece, Eleanor, so many years ago."  
  
Victor Alexander Carrenworth V toyed a bit with the golden dragon pendant he always wore. "Then you will see to it that this Tavington never achieves any sort of military glory for as long as he serves under you?"  
  
"Yes, my lord. I will see to it personally. If not for you, seeing as I don't believe in this ridiculous holy war. it's little more than a feud, then for Eleanor."  
  
That was all of the conversation he had seen before being whisked back upstairs by his dreadfully overprotective nursemaid, but he had stowed away the information in one of the many small compartments that made up his massive brain, in the event that it would ever prove advantageous.  
  
Deciding the time was right, the governor-general was in a sufficiently poor mood, the Golden Dragoon set his glass aside and met Cornwallis' gaze with his own.  
  
"Forgive my saying this, and do not think me a traitor, but I must say that I find it absolutely appalling the way the government is treating you."  
  
"What do you mean?" Cornwallis asked rather disinterested, his mind still caught up in thinking about O'Hara.  
  
"I mean simply this. You are General Lord Cornwallis, and they treat you as though you were an ignorant child. They send this Tavington, a commoner, to supervise your work. As a fellow aristocrat, I am appalled!"  
  
These statements somehow managed to pierce through the swirling turmoil and into the governor-general's brain. He looked at the duke with renewed affection.  
  
"Do you mean that?"  
  
"It would be an insult to your dignity for me to lie to you, and trust me, my dear Lord Cornwallis, the last thing I want to do insult anyone's dignity. I know how it feels. That is what this whole thing is about, after all. Dignity. Though there are those who consider the ancient struggle between the Golden and Green Dragoons nothing more than a petty feud, I see it as something more. I see it as a struggle centered at the very core of English society. It is, fundamentally, a struggle between the nobility and the peasants who must be kept in their place. I do not oppose Tavington because of a conflict between brothers that occurred in generations past. I do so to ensure the superiority of the few. To maintain the universal truth that some where born to rule and other were born to follow. Men like you and I, dear Cornwallis, were born to lead and as leaders were are trusted with the sacred obligation to maintain stability, to maintain the order of things as they should be, not as men like Tavington desire them."  
  
The words had been exactly what the governor-general had wanted to hear. Victor smiled almost unnoticeably, impressed by his own performance.  
  
"Well," Cornwallis said after allowing the speech a while to soak in. "You most certainly are not your father."  
  
Victor smiled, very much prepared to continue.  
  
* * *  
  
The first full night of sleep that Gen. William Tavington had been granted in the past week was interrupted by the nightmare. He often wondered about the strange dream, which he had at first attributed to his brief dependence upon opium, but now knew to have more truth than he would have liked.  
  
It was exactly what the interior of a sanitarium looked like. He had spent several days in one when he was nine. William Tavington XII had gone insane, some said it was grief, others said it was hereditary, and still others whispered of darker things. It was where he had died, locked away in one of those wretched places, to prevent him from hurting anyone else.  
  
The doctor who owned the place, whose name Tavington no longer remembered (perhaps another aftereffect of the drug), and his wife had been a rarity in the world, genuinely thoughtful people but only when it came to sane children. The boy had lived with them for a week, the length of time it took his Aunt Morganna to travel to London. He had seen very little of the sanitarium aside from damp stone walls and locked doors. There was the screaming though, and not seeing the sort of beings that could produce such mournful cries allowed his imagination the full run of the grotesque and horrible.  
  
"Such things," the doctor's wife had said, "are not suitable for the eyes of innocent children."  
  
As though I was ever innocent, Tavington thought. The dream was always the same as the first time he had experienced it, during the early, very painful, part of his recovery. He was nine years-old again, a neglected little shadow with the eyes of one who had experienced too much in too short a time.  
  
He didn't know who the man was who led him through the dismal hallways. He didn't have a face; he was just a voice, and a body that ended in a neck with a white lace collar and a pendant in the shape of a golden dragon. The walls were made of roughly cut stone, the mortar between them worn away by moisture and the thick green moss that grew in sporadic little patches. They would pass various doors form behind which emanated the most blood- curling of screams. The man kept a hand firmly on William's shoulder. Whoever he was, he was wearing red gloves. William had seen many colors of gloves, but they were usually various shades of black and brown. Red was an oddity.  
  
"Do you know why your father is here?" the man asked.  
  
"Cause he killed a bunch of people," William would reply automatically, trying to suppress the flood of bloody images that washed over his eyes.  
  
They would pass many of the doors lining the hallway, doors made of solid wood with tiny windows set with thick metal bars. Then they would come to a hallway even darker than the previous ones. The man would remove his hand from William's shoulder and bit him, "Go forward and look."  
  
The windows were set so high in the doors that the boy had to stand on tip toe to peer inside.  
  
The room on the right was inhabited by a man who was always praying. He had numerous self-inflicted cuts peppering his exposed flesh. The inhabitant of this room was the most easily recognizable, Capt. Henry Bordon.  
  
Directly across the hall, in the room on the left, lived what was left of the two Carrenworth sisters, Anna and Karenna. There was little left of Karenna besides a full skeleton of fleshless bones. Anna stood in a corner, her blond hair a mess of knots and tangles, blood dripping eternally from the gashes across her wrists.  
  
Then there was the final door, a door that opened of its own will. A door that once opened young William found himself on the other side of. The dream was always sketchy at this point. He wasn't quite sure how he had come to be locked in the room at the end of the hall. He hadn't walked in and the man with red gloves certainly hadn't shoved him in. All he knew was that he was locked in and there was nothing to do but bang on the door. It didn't budge. It never would.  
  
William got up on his tip-toes so he could see outside of the little window. There was the familiar face, the face he had never been able to put a name to until six months ago. It was the face of Victor Alexander Carrenworth framed by his thick, red curls.  
  
"Poor little William," Victor cooed. "Just look at where all your lovely ambition has gotten you."  
  
The smoke filled the room slowly. Then bright orange flames began licking the edges of the door. William backed against the wall. He was trapped, and he was going to die. The air grew thicker. It caught in the boy's lungs. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He began to grow dizzy, then sleepy. The last word he uttered before the darkness claimed him was always, "Mother."  
  
He awoke sweating, gasping for breath; his shoulder and neck throbbing. O'Hara stood in the doorway holding a candlestick, a worried expression on his face.  
  
The dragoon became suddenly aware of a terribly burning sensation in his right arm. Glancing to the side he found one of the surgeons working intently, wiping blood away from a small incision near the joint. Furious he jerked his arm away and sat up. The wound immediately began leaking blood again. Tavington's head spun, but anger prevented him from losing consciousness.  
  
"Who ordered this!" he demanded of a shocked O'Hara.  
  
"Do be still, sir," the surgeon begged.  
  
Having had a previous experience with the effectives of massive blood loss, Tavington lay back down. The surgeon wiped away the excess blood again and began threading a rather large needle. Seeing the oversized sewing implement O'Hara winced, Tavington seemed unaffected.  
  
"You had quite a fever, sir," O'Hara explained. "You've been in bed for three days, raving about all sorts of things. To be perfectly honest, sir, you gave us all quite a scare. No one thought you'd live, especially Dr. Greystone there."  
  
"You do indeed have quite the constitution, sir. You must," he indicated the scars on Tavington's neck and shoulder, "to live through something like that."  
  
"That's our Tav!" Ox, the giant of a dragoon exclaimed coming up behind O'Hara. "Here, have a pint!"  
  
O'Hara took the drink and a cautious sip. Ale, he discovered, and very cheep ale at that.  
  
They were silent while Dr. Greystone finished his sewing. O'Hara did his best to look away. He had always been repulsed by such things, but he was fascinated by Tavington's seeming immunity to pain. In truth, the dragoon commander had been in pain so much worse that this was barely verging on discomfort.  
  
"There you are, sir," Greystone announced, repacking his supplies in a black medical bag. "I would recommend that you remain in bed for the next few da."  
  
Tavington gave the doctor a look that informed him that such a thing would be entirely impossible.  
  
"Very good, sir."  
  
When he was gone, O'Hara stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him.  
  
"How are you feeling, sir?"  
  
"I feel fine," Tavington replied, personally unable to believe that he had really been ill. He did, in fact, feel fine. There was a little dizziness from the blood letting but that was all.  
  
"I'm glad, sir. I have arranged transportation to Calcutta. We should arrive within a few days if we leave tomorrow."  
  
"Very good, O'Hara. Perhaps you aren't so worthless after all."  
  
Ignoring the insult, O'Hara continued. "And that assassin, de Fleur, wants to speak with you."  
  
"Is that all?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Tavington closed his eyes. "Are you armed, O'Hara?"  
  
"Yes, sir," the general replied thinking it a strange question.  
  
"Then I will see M.* de Fleur now."  
  
  
  
*Yes, I do mean M. de Fleur, he is French after all. 


	18. A Nobleman Gone Astray

Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Eighteen: "A Nobleman Gone Astray"  
  
When Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord was born it was obvious to his parents, the Count and Countess Talleyrand, that there was something unusual about their younger son. Babies are supposed to cry unless, of course, they're dead. Charles was the sort of baby who was very much alive but rarely uttered a single sound, as though crying were somehow beneath his dignity. He was the near-perfect successor the ancient bloodline of Talleyrand, a boy born to lead the legion of French Silver Dragoons.  
  
The accident had come as a crushing blow to his proud father. It was common in France, in 1754, for noble families to send their children out to be raised by peasants. The very concept of childrearing was abhorrent to their idealized and refined lifestyle. Often they system worked perfectly. The children developed a healthy constitution from hard work and from having experienced the poorness of the peasants could fully appreciate their own wealth. The Talleyrands had simply selected the wrong peasant.  
  
At the age of four, and quite the active child, young Charles had been climbing atop a chest of drawer when he fell and broke his foot. The injury itself wasn't necessarily severe, and could have been repaired by any experienced physician. It was the peasant woman in charge of the boy who chose to ignore the injury. The bones knitted poorly, leaving the boy with a disfigured foot and a horrible limp.  
  
Disgusted by the neglect on the part of the peasant, Count Talleyrand sent his young son to live with his great-grandmother, the Princess Chalais. He would have brought him home, but seeing so much military potential ruined so early and so needlessly was offensive to his senses. The Count turned his attention to Charles' older brother, Pierre Talleyrand, and left his younger son to Chalais.  
  
"But, the poor thing has the talent," the Countess reminded her husband. "And Pierre can do nothing! Why, he can barely lift a quill from an inkpot with his hand, much less with his powers. They say that the Green Dragoons have a boy with an affinity for fire. They have a true child of the blood."  
  
"Yes, my dear," the Count lamented, embracing his wife. "But we must face reality. We must do our best to train Pierre. It is best that Charles knows nothing of this. It would only make his lot in life more miserable if he knew his potential. I have given mother explicit instructions to avoid the subject. When he grows up I envision a career in the clergy for him. It is what the younger sons of the other noble families are sent off to become. Perhaps he will like it."  
  
The Princess Chalais was a woman of great natural curiosity, and had dabbled in everything that is unwise for the inexperienced to dabble with. The peasants who lived in the village near her castle in the French countryside where well aware of her eccentricity, and commonly referred to her as 'the witch.'  
  
Every Sunday any peasant who happened to be suffering from some ailment or another would come to the princess's spacious sunroom, a room made of glass attached to the main structure of the castle filled with strange herbs that gave off distinctly evil smells. There, the Princess Chalais would sit upon a gilded chair she had imported from the Austrian Empire and dispense bottles, bags, and elixirs of her homemade remedies.  
  
Charles had watched her, having crept out of his bedroom and down to the tiny root cellar where his great-grandmother did her work. She would stand over the massive, black iron, cauldron, her gray hair, normally powdered and arranged neatly hanging loose, her fashionable dresses exchanged for something plain and black. She looked like the sort of witch one would find in fairy tales. Oddly, he was proud. There was a witch, a real witch, in his family. The Princess was an effective witch, as well. She could make potions to cure rheumatism in old farmers or ones to make rebellious young girls fall in love.  
  
When she would receive the peasants, the boy would stand beside her lovely gilded chair and watch the whole process with great fascination.  
  
"My hand's botherin' me again, your grace," some would lament.  
  
Or, "I am with child and we already have three daughters. I should very much like a son this time."  
  
Or even, "I am deeply in love with the miller's daughter but she will have nothing to do with me."  
  
All of these problems could be fixed with the appropriate potion, lovingly brewed by the Princess Chalais. Witchcraft, however, was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to the woman's interests.  
  
Charles had been nine, and enjoying a delicious breakfast with his great- grandmother when the elderly woman had suddenly posed an odd question.  
  
"Charles, dear, do you see that fork at the far end of the table?"  
  
"Yes, grandmamma."  
  
"Do you think that you could move that fork, my dearest, simply by thinking about moving it?"  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, grandmamma." Young Charles was willing to believe in witchcraft, at least it seemed tangible. Telekinesis was an entirely different matter.  
  
"Do you think you could just try it darling? For your silly old grandmother?"  
  
* * *  
  
Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord felt much better indeed, free from the somber trappings that the office of agent general of the French Clergy required him to wear.  
  
"My father should be thankful for my cousin Bernard," Talleyrand remarked to Madame Germaine de Stael, the latest of his numerous girlfriends but undoubtedly the only one with a fine education. "When he told me I had to enter the seminary I would have killed him."  
  
"What did your cousin do to save you father?" Germaine inquired. She ran her pudgy fingers threw her tightly curled brown hair.  
  
"He told me that regardless of the vow of chastity one was still relatively free to engage in the pleasure of the flesh."  
  
Germaine laughed. "It's the one thing you can't live without, isn't it Tally?"  
  
"It's one of two things."  
  
"What's the other one then?"  
  
"Dignity."  
  
Talleyrand finished buttoning his dark blue, silver-trimmed jacket. He admired it in one of Madame de Stael's full-length mirrors. Very dashing, if he did say so himself.  
  
"You left another thing out," Germaine added.  
  
"And what's that?" the clergyman inquired.  
  
"Winning. You're the sort who absolutely couldn't go on living if you ever lost."  
  
"As always, darling Germaine, you are a wonderful judge of human character."  
  
* * *  
  
Pierre Talleyrand had been sent off to London several years previous to infiltrate the order of dragoons comprised exclusively of member of the English nobility. His reports back to the court of Versailles had been frequent and filled with often interesting tales. Through agents, Charles Talleyrand had been able to acquire copies of them. He was well acquainted with the stories of Victor Alexander Carrenworth VI, the bizarre young prince with his fiery hair and icy eyes who could turn a rapier into dancing liquid steal, but who was plagued by the dreadful flaw of having emotions.  
  
The reports that really interested him, however, were those that concerned the infamous Tavington. They interested him because they interested Louis XVI, and because they were in the interest of France.  
  
Pierre Talleyrand had gone away to India with the English dragoons nearly six months ago, and since then there had been no word, until one day when the news reached Charles Talleyrand that his brother had been killed. No one knew the exact circumstances of the death, only that it had caused quite a stir in far-off British India. It was, in fact, a small column in The Times. "Assassin Dies in Attempted Murder of British General William Tavington."  
  
With the death of his brother, Charles found himself the head of the French Silver Dragoons. With his newfound position, came enough newfound courage to do the one thing he had always wanted to do, but had been too frightened of the pain to carry out. His grandmother had introduced him to the witch, a woman considered the finest bonesetter in Europe, and a practitioner of the ancient ways of the orient. Regardless of her skill, it had been extraordinarily painful.  
  
His leg was still a little sore and stiff from disuse, but he could walk now with a limp that was barely noticeable. He had even managed a few formal lessons in sword fighting.  
  
"Soon," the young Frenchman thought aloud. "Very soon I shall be off to India, but first I must put up with a certain measure of unpleasantness."  
  
By that, he meant a mandatory visit with the French monarch, a man that Talleyrand had never truly respected. Then again, he had never TRULY respected anyone except himself.  
  
* * *  
  
The round-faced young king, with his notoriously bad complexion, nose spotted with pimples, stared down at Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord from the elevated position of his high throne. Though young himself, the king had expected a much older man to lead France's most distinguished military force. Why, this Talleyrand could not be thirty yet!  
  
Talleyrand bowed low. He liked the etiquette of Versailles, even though he did not necessarily like the king. There was something in etiquette, in formal ritual that kept things as they should be, peasants and nobles in their proper places. He was thankful that one was required to hold one's position in bowing to the king for a full fifteen seconds. It was fifteen seconds that he was spared looking at that grotesque face.  
  
He could almost understand the alleged actions of the queen.  
  
"Rise, Talleyrand."  
  
It had not been a full fifteen seconds. The young nobleman was sorely disappointed. Though not particularly attractive himself, Talleyrand did not enjoy being subjected to the physical shortcomings of others. He, like all good Frenchmen, was a lover of physical beauty, especially in women.  
  
"So, you are off to India then?" the King asked.  
  
"Yes, your majesty," Talleyrand replied, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He had been alive during the reign of the present king's grandfather, Louis XV, a man more worthy of respect.  
  
"And you intend to bring this upstart who has poisoned my dear queen's mind to justice?"  
  
Talleyrand wanted to laugh. The king was so angry now that he knew his queen's secret. He had only been ignorant of it for two years while the rumors buzzed in circles about his ears.  
  
"Such is my duty to France, your majesty."  
  
"Such is your duty to me," the King corrected.  
  
"Naturally, your majesty. You are France. Forgive me," Talleyrand carefully reworded his statement. "Such is my duty to my king."  
  
Louis XVI smiled broadly. This only made his face all the more disgusting. He had the gross, jolly grin of the glutton. "Then you may go, Talleyrand. Go with my blessing."  
  
The priest-turned-dragoon bowed then left the room, increasingly thankful for the ability to walk quickly. 


	19. Eating Cake

Carrenworth: The Vengeance: Chapter Nineteen: "Eating Cake"  
  
Marie Antoinette still denied everything.  
  
As rumors do in all courts, there were stealthy whisperings in the halls, at the King's levee, and in the balconies filled with fortune noblemen watching the royal family partake of their evening meal. The gossip twittered about among the nobles concerning the alleged affair between the Queen and her mysterious red-haired Briton. The dinner observers watched with great fascination the one night he was invited to dine with the Bourbons. Women with tiny pink lips peered through opera glasses at the beautiful young man.  
  
Where King Louis XVI devoured food with the relish of a half-starved peasant, plate after plate passed untouched before Victor Alexander Carrenworth. Even the desserts, marvelous confections created by the finest pastry chefs in France, did not seem to interest him. During the entire dinner he consumed nothing but a small glass of white wine. When their Queen had first come to France as a teenage Austrian princess she had been made so nervous by the eyes peering at her from the balcony that she had been unable to eat. There was nothing in the young man's demeanor to hint at nervousness. The observers found it charming; he was like Persephone snatched up by Hades, not wanting to partake of the food of the underworld lest he might be forced to remain.  
  
They would have had to be inside Victor's feverish body to know the true reason, the effect of illness upon appetite.  
  
King Louis dined as was his custom, a napkin tucked into his collar and belching loudly at regular intervals, much to the delight of the onlookers. Victor provided a perfect contrast, making amiable conversation with the other diners, much as though he was pleasantly unaware of the audience. His high-pitched voice was more suited to French than English. The Queen stared at him, a dreamy expression gracing her traditionally Hapsburg features.  
  
By the end of dinner, many of the nobles were willing to forgive their Queen. After all, they kept lovers themselves, and if the two were indeed lovers then the Queen was certainly lucky. She deserved a little something for having been married to the pimple-faced King so early in her life.  
  
Queen Marie Antoinette was enchanted. They had met at one of those grandiose parties so common at Versailles, that Victor's social station and royal ancestry entitled him to attend. The Queen assumed that his hair was the thing that first caught her eye, a mass of blood red curls amongst a sea of powder. A spark of life in a land of the dead. There was something about that hair, wild, beautiful, non-conformist. She asked him to dance. It began with that.  
  
While living in exile in France, young Lord Carrenworth shared the Queen's bed on several occasions. And what an odd bed it was, surrounded on all sides by a golden railing. The purpose of which was to keep those who came to witness the royal births at a save distance. She hardly ever spent the night with the King. Versailles was an odd place, full of odd rituals and bizarre intrigues. The only risk for discovery came from Marie's own ladies-in-waiting. They were a nosey bunch with extraordinarily loud mouths.  
  
Eventually, Marie's fascination with Victor developed into a motherly sort of endearment. He was young, he was fragile, and he needed her. She had noticed his pale skin, the visible ribs, and the dreadful cough that only seemed to grow worse with time. There was also the refinement, the grace. He was more kingly than her husband, the sort of prince charming she had dreamt of as a child. Louis could be her friend and her husband, but he could never truly be her lover.  
  
Victor, on the other hand, devoted himself to the Queen in much the same way he devoted himself to anything that interested him. Mostly, he saw her as a means to several very promising ends. Yet, underneath that, she stirred certain feelings that were foreign to his heart. He had known many women, and considered himself a master seducer and romantic. Marie made him feel very different than Veronica with her wine-dark lips, lovely Roxanne, or the nymph Laura.  
  
He had never known a mother. The Queen had given him something of a passable substitute, a confidant.  
  
"Should anything, dear God forbid, ever happen to Louis," Marie whispered, cradling his head in her lap, "I think that you would make quite the fine king."  
  
"You do flatter me, my darling Marie," Victor said with one of his twisted smiles.  
  
The fourth child of Queen Marie Antoinette, Princess Sophie-Helene, died mysteriously at the age of eleven months. Some believed that her early death could be attributed to the fact that she was born with curiously red hair.  
  
* * *  
  
Having left the majority of his dragoons at a reputable looking inn to recover from the overwhelming heat and the long march to Calcutta, Gen. Tavington along with Gen. O'Hara set out on a tour of their new home. They were led by Mooreville, who had returned to India several months previous in order to 'test the waters,' as he put it. He led them through the main square, down numerous small streets, past markets and shops. The people about the streets were mostly natives. It was mid-afternoon and the heat seemed to cause most Britons to take refuge in their homes.  
  
It was unbearably hot. O'Hara found himself cooking beneath his heavy jacket. Mooreville seemed somewhat immune to the heat, and the Irishman assumed it was due to his having been brought up in the country. There was nothing, however, to explain Tavington's disregard for the heat. Despite how he might have really felt the dragoon commander held up remarkably, not bothering to even perspire in the slightest. Mooreville talked at great length, pointing out various buildings and relating much of their histories. He was knowledgeable of native customs, and could name all of the eastern spices being sold at the markets. O'Hara was fascinated.  
  
Tavington surveyed the city with the eye of a tactician, meticulously committing to memory streets, alleys, locations, and observing natives critically. They came up a market, where a large crowd had gathered. A circular arena had been marked off with robe. In the center stood a native of truly monstrous proportion, more a young elephant than a human with dark brown skin and black tattoos that intertwined like serpents.  
  
"Filthy spectacles," Mooreville remarked.  
  
O'Hara was confused. "What do you mean?"  
  
"That's the infamous Bernard Duel," Mooreville replied, pointing out a fat Briton standing near the giant native. He was animated, despite the heat, and seemed to be entertaining the assembled crowd with tales of the native's great victories. The dragoons caught pieces of the stories above the noise, particularly graphic descriptions of limbs being ripped from torsos. "And the big man is Abdul. They travel from province to province. He says he'll pay 3000 pounds to anyone who can defeat Abdul in a swordfight."  
  
"Three thousand pounds!" O'Hara's eyes widened. "Where did he get the money to offer for the reward?"  
  
"He charges a fee for the privilege of giving it a go. Needless to say, no one's ever won. I've seen the native fight. Of course, he's won so much now that only the very ignorant or the very drunk will challenge him."  
  
Tavington, who had been quite for sometime, sizing up the native, looking for weak spots, turned to Mooreville. "I think I'll give it a go."  
  
"Don't," O'Hara exclaimed.  
  
"Why not?" Tavington asked, annoyed at the thought that Mooreville might be doubting his skill.  
  
"You'll die."  
  
The dragoon laughed. "I can't be defeated by an untrained native."  
  
"You were defeated by an untrained colonial," O'Hara whispered, but (luckily) Tavington did not hear him.  
  
The leader of the Green Dragoons dismounted, unsheathed his saber, and walked up to Bernard Duel. Duel had the look of a sideshow manager, he was very red in the face and wearing a ridiculously colorful outfit, and bright yellow coat and a vest decorated in a pattern of red and purple diamonds.  
  
"How much to fight Abdul?" Tavington inquired offhandedly.  
  
"Uh. excuse me. s-sir." Duel stammered, his eyes fixing on Tavington's saber, which shone deadly and sharp in the India sun.  
  
"How much to fight Abdul?" Tavington asked again.  
  
A wide smile spread of Duel's fat features. Business had been bad lately.  
  
"Ah, so you want to fight, do you? Well, I can arrange that, for a mere fifty pounds."  
  
"Fifty pounds!"  
  
Duel's smile didn't waver. "But think of the reward."  
  
The members of the crowd, who had grown bored with Bernard Duel's stories of Abdul's victories and were anxious to see one for themselves, urged the dragoon on enthusiastically. Despite the steep entrance fee Tavington was not one to pass up a chance at making a profitable first impression. After all, he didn't intend to lose. The only risk was that Mr. Duel would admit that he was not in possession of the reward he offered.  
  
"Very well." Tavington took five ten pound notes from his pocket, a small fortune and all he had, and handed them over to the fat man.  
  
Duel clutched the money in he pudgy fingers, as if he could somehow absorb its essence into his very being.  
  
"Very good then. he's all yours, mister."  
  
"Tavington. General Tavington."  
  
"Of course, Gen. Tavington."  
  
Duel said something to the native in one of the local languages before stepping out of the arena and taking a place amongst the crowd.  
  
The native, Abdul, didn't waste any time, he rushed forward, wielding a great, curved scimitar. In a great swing, he brought it down. The dragoon dodged, and countered with his saber, but Abdul brought the scimitar back up and the two blades hit with a deafening screech. The force of the blow was amazing, nearly knocking the weapon from Tavington's hand, but he was quick to recover, like his opponent.  
  
Abdul retreated a bit. He was used to quick and easy disarms. This wasn't going to be so simple. He wasn't fighting one of those foolish old Britons who fancied himself something of a swordsman. Now it was Tavington's turn to close the gap, pressing the attack with a fury of potentially fatal slashes. Abdul blocked admirably, but his size decreased his dexterity considerably. He was nearly to the edge of the arena before he managed another attack.  
  
This one had the desired effect, sending the dragoon flying backwards. He landed on his knees, back to his opponent. Abdul prepared for the deathblow, with a quick nod to his employer he brought his scimitar down like a Tower of London executioner would wield his axe.  
  
What happened next seemed to take place in slow motion, at least for Abdul. Twirling around, Tavington made a well-targeted swing. The momentum from the downward swing prevented Abdul from recovering in time. His scimitar hit the ground and Tavington's saber connected with his neck. The well- sharpened steal sliced through flesh and bone as though it was a tea cake.  
  
Tavington flicked the blood from his blade as Abdul's head hit the ground, coming to rest next to his scimitar with a sickening plop.  
  
Mooreville, O'Hara, and the rest of the audience burst into wild applause, all except for Bernard Duel who had fainted.  
  
From the shadow cast by a nearby building, protected from the harsh sunlight, the Frenchman smiled. Indeed, he had found the proper man. 


	20. You Have Ten Seconds

Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Twenty: "You Have Ten Seconds to Make a First Impression"  
  
"Very, very impressive!"  
  
Gen. William Tavington looked up, his gaze meeting that of a mysterious Frenchman who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere to stand beside the arena. He was dressed in one of those French uniforms that the dragoons had poked fun at while stationed in America. It was light blue with navy cuffs and silver ornamentation. A wide-brimmed Musketeer style hat was perched atop a mass of carefully powdered curls. He spoke English admirably well, but with a distinct French accent.  
  
Tavington could tell from the way the man carried himself that he was a statesman not a soldier. The impressively ornate rapier hanging from his belt seemed almost out of place. It was the sort of weapon used for show, not war.  
  
"So you are General William Tavington?" the Frenchman asked.  
  
"He is," Mooreville answered, coming up from behind. His hand rested on the hilt of his saber. A French assassin was exactly the sort of thing one would expect from a Carrenworth. "And who are you?"  
  
Much to the old dragoon's surprise, the Frenchman turned to him, removed his comically large hat, and bowed.  
  
"I am Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord."  
  
Mooreville and O'Hara were stunned by the response. The stood frozen for a few seconds before bowing themselves. The majority of the crowd did likewise.  
  
"Uh. Gen. Tavington," O'Hara whispered, noticing the dragoon's breech of etiquette.  
  
"Who is he?" Tavington asked indifferently. He pulled a white handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the remaining blood from his saber.  
  
"He's Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord!" O'Hara exclaimed in shock.  
  
"And he's king of France or something?"  
  
O'Hara was dumbfounded. "He might as well be. Damn it man."  
  
"All this formality really isn't necessary," Talleyrand sighed, reminding himself that the British were of a lower class and therefore their idiocies had to be tolerated. Replacing his hat, he turned to Tavington. "May I congratulate you on your victory? That was a most impressive display! I had the pleasure of attending one of those little tournaments that the Ecole Militaire performs in the winter. I was quite impressed by the skill of Carrenworth. but that. that was glorious!"  
  
Truth be told, Talleyrand found it rather bloody, but like anyone who frequented the Palace of Versailles he had achieved a respectable level in the art of flattery.  
  
"Thank you," Tavington replied. He turned to Bernard Duel. The proprietor had grown very pail and was mopping his face with an oversized checkered handkerchief. "My reward, sir?"  
  
"R-reward?" the fat man stammered.  
  
In half a second the point of Tavington's saber was tickling his quivering double chin.  
  
"My reward?"  
  
"Yes, of course, your reward." Duel reached into his pocket, seeming reaching for the money. What emerged was a flintlock pistol, cocked and ready. Duel leveled it at Tavington. "Here's your filthy reward!"  
  
The gun exploded with a deafening crack. Talleyrand dove for cover behind Mooreville and O'Hara. Fortunately for Tavington, Mr. Duel had terrible aim. Unfortunately for Mr. Duel, Tavington happened to be armed. The dust stirred up by the gunshot settled as the dragoon pulled his once again bloody weapon from the man's enormous gut.  
  
The crowd stood in dumbstruck silence as the three dragoons mounded their horses. Mooreville gave Tavington a disapproving look, which he ignored. O'Hara tried to prevent his gaze from wandering toward the two bodies, meat cooking in the Indian sun.  
  
"I would like a word with you, Gen. Tavington!" the voice of the strangely dressed Frenchman called out.  
  
Talleyrand's ego was stinging from his recent display of cowardice, but he wasn't the sort to give up easily.  
  
"What is it, already?!" Tavington snapped.  
  
The words did not have their desired effect of scaring the meddling foreigner away, however.  
  
"I have something very important I wish to discuss with you. It concerns a certain Victor Alexander Carrenworth."  
  
* * *  
  
Victor Alexander Carrenworth sipped his cup of cream slightly flavored with tea while watching Lord Cornwallis pace nervously back and forth across his office in Government House. He wondered what it was about this Tavington that made the Governor-General so damned nervous. Having met the man himself, he had been decidedly unimpressed. He remembered the conversation between Cornwallis and his father. That would explain the dislike, but there was something about Cornwallis' manner that indicated fear.  
  
"Afraid, my dear Cornwallis?" Victor had risked it. The question hung in the air. Neither man spoke.  
  
* * *  
  
Tavington shut the door, trapping the Frenchman. Talleyrand couldn't help but feel a bit nervous. He was trapped in a room with a man he knew was capable of beheading someone over twice his size. There was also the fact that this man did not seem to like him very much. Still, this was it.  
  
"Now or never," Talleyrand told himself.  
  
"What do you want, Frenchman?" Tavington asked idly, flipping through a book that happened to be nearby. It was an observation of various native religious customs, the sort of book one might expect to find in an out of the way Calcutta inn. The content didn't interest the dragoon, not nearly as much as the Frenchman who seemed so interested in Carrenworth. It wouldn't do to appear eager.  
  
"As I said earlier, it concerns the Duke of Fairenvail."  
  
"Call him Vic," Tavington commented without looking up. "We all do." By all he meant the other Green Dragoons.  
  
"Very well then, it concerns," used to titles, Talleyrand nearly stumbled over the little name that had been put in his path, "Vic." 


	21. The Commission

Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Twenty-One: "The Commission"  
  
The three inseparable friends fought for the prime listening space near the keyhole. Karenna Carrenworth angrily shoved Thomas Ridgeford Thompson out of the way.  
  
"It's my bloody dad, cockney!"  
  
"Sorry, miss," Thompson whispered, more than a little disappointed that he was going to be the one giving up his spot at the door.  
  
Karenna elbowed the cockney and put her own ear to the keyhole.  
  
"Bloody hell! It is my dad! What's he doin' here?"  
  
"Of course it's your dad," William spat. "Why would I lie about something like that?"  
  
"Because you're a real bloody bastard sometimes," Karenna retorted.  
  
"I assure you that you've done nothing to displease me, in fact, quite the opposite. The education my daughters have received at your school is quite on the level they would receive had I chosen to educate them myself."  
  
The Duke of Fairenvail stared down his long nose at Morganna Tavington. The headmistress was dressed in the same plain, dark blue dress that William remembered from their first meeting. He had come to suspect that it was the only one she owned.  
  
"You flatter me. I suppose," Morganna answered uncomfortably, her Tavington instincts demanding that she call him a 'bloody, arrogant, bastard.' Morganna had learned long ago to subjugate her nature, to make it the slave of her intellect and reason.  
  
Karenna hadn't seen her father in over six years. She had changed. He hadn't. As always, he was eternally ageless, impeccably dressed, and wearing that foolishly gaudy necklace in the shape of a golden dragon. The girl watched through the keyhole. The woman sitting beside her father was unfamiliar. She was tall and dark with small black eyes to match her raven hair. Her left hand clutched the hand of a girl, about six, with brown hair and green eyes. In her right arm she cradled a tiny, red-haired infant.  
  
"I understand that you are an old acquaintance of my wife, my second wife that is. Isn't that right, dear Virginia?"  
  
"Second wife?" Karenna nearly screamed, "What's happened to mum?"  
  
"Surely you remember me, Morganna," the woman whispered, smiling. Her voice had a slight French accent.  
  
"Yes, Ms. Demain, I remember you," Morganna managed, barely able to control the rage building inside her.  
  
"Now, Ms. Tavington, I have come to collect my daughters."  
  
Morganna lowered her eyes. "Yes, I suppose I'll never understand men and their wars. Karenna, you can come in now. I know you're out there."  
  
"I don't want to go!" Karenna cried, bursting into the room like some rogue tornado. "I won't! I like it here!"  
  
"I know, my dear," her father answered quietly. "But I'm afraid it's not your decision to make."  
  
She was gone that very night, both her and her sister Anna. A sense of profound loss settled across St. Agnes'. Thompson, normally capable of eating several dinners, barely touched food that night. He wiped tears away from his large, blue eyes at regular intervals.  
  
"Do pull yourself together, Thomas," Morganna reprimanded. "Try to act like a gentleman."  
  
"Oi cain't!" Thompson wailed. "Oi miss Karenna!"  
  
"How can you miss her?" one of the girls asked. "She was always ordering you about and hitting you."  
  
"Oi, but she was moi friend."  
  
After the students were safely in bed, and once she was sure there was no one about to eavesdrop, Morganna Tavington called her nephew to the library.  
  
"Sit down, William."  
  
William wondered what his aunt wanted. She seemed to have become determined to ignore him except when it came time for the girls' dancing lessons. Thompson occupied most of her time. He was something of a pet project.  
  
His family, what was left of it, lived in a rundown shack not far from the school. One morning Thomas Thompson had shown up at the door, poor, starving, and seemingly alone. Morganna had taken pity on the boy and allowed him to come live in the school, despite the protestations of the other teachers. Her design was a bold one. She would turn this Thompson, a low, common cockney, into a proper gentleman.  
  
"William," Morganna began. Her voice trailed off and she found her gaze wandering to the portrait above the fireplace, the only picture of her father she could bring herself to display.  
  
"Yes, Aunt Morganna?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"If this is about Thompson falling down the well, I had nothing to do with it."  
  
"William, I'm sending you away."  
  
The boy had half-expected this response.  
  
"But Aunt Morganna. I'll never do it again!"  
  
"Pack your things. You leave in the morning."  
  
For years Tavington had assumed that his aunt sent him to boarding school because he had tricked Thompson into climbing down the well.  
  
"It's where she keeps the pies, Thompson."  
  
"In the well?"  
  
"Naturally."  
  
"But. whoi?"  
  
"To hide them from you, of course."  
  
Now he understood. She had only been trying to protect him from Lord Carrenworth, who had finally discovered his whereabouts. Morganna had actually cared about him.  
  
"Gen. Tavington?"  
  
The Frenchman toyed anxiously with his hat, his gray eyes fixed on the saber the dragoon was holding. Talleyrand deeply regretted not having taken his sword fighting lessons more seriously. He could image himself being slice clean in half.  
  
"Go on."  
  
"Yes, well. As you are no doubt aware, Victor Alexander Carrenworth VI, Duke of Fairenvail, spent several years living in France. In that short amount of time. he was able to cause a rather severe problem in the French governmental system. More specifically, he."  
  
"What?"  
  
". Seduced the queen."  
  
Tavington's eyebrows rose slightly, his interest was heightened. Leave it to that Carrenworth to seduce Marie Antoinette. Then again, if Mooreville was as knowledgeable of foreign affairs as he claimed then seducing women in France required no real talent.  
  
"There are rumors that he plans to do away with Louis XVI and marry the queen."  
  
"Surely the house of Bourbon is built on a stronger foundation than that?" Tavington sneered mockingly. "One man can bring France to her knees? One, British, man? Why are you telling me this anyway? I'd think this would be the sort of thing you French would like to keep secret."  
  
"Under normal circumstances, it would be," Talleyrand continued. "But this is different."  
  
"How is it different, M. Talleyrand?"  
  
"You, sir, are the only one who can get rid of. Vic."  
  
Tavington smiled. Being the only person the French thought capable of a task was bound to go hand in hand with some kind of reward.  
  
"If we were to utilize the might of the French army we would no doubt bring about another war between our two nations. This must be done quietly, privately. It must look like an accident, a duel, something. It cannot look as though France is involved."  
  
Talleyrand pulled a letter from one of the pockets of his uniform and handed it to Tavington. The paper was thick, expensive parchment. It was sealed with the very seal of the King of France.  
  
"That is a commission from His Majesty, King Louis XVI of France. He offers you a most generous reward in return for your services."  
  
Tavington tore the letter open and scanned its contents, a basic military order masked by nearly impenetrable flowery court language. If he could kill Carrenworth, he would become one of the richest men in Europe, and, if Mooreville was correct, he would remain the sole heir to the House of Carrenworth. What did it matter that he planned to kill the man anyway. This was just icing on an already tasty cake.  
  
"My services as an assassin," Tavington thought, intrigued by the idea.  
  
The Frenchman nodded.  
  
"I accept," the Grand High Dragoon said. "Within the next six months, dear Vic will be dead. one way or another."  
  
For the first time in several years, Tavington found his life almost worth living again. Now, he felt like his old self. One's family name could be easily redeemed with a title and half the money in Europe.  
  
~END OF BOOK ONE~  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I would like to thank everyone who has stuck with this long story. Hopefully, you've enjoyed reading it just as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Look for the sequel. coming soon. "Tavington: The Legend"  
  
*AND go to http://pub34.ezboard.com/bthenewlegionrpg to join the British Green Dragoon Role-Playing Game! 


	22. Six Months Duty

The Legend: Book Two: Chapter Twenty-Two: "Six Months Duty"  
  
Outside the bells in the tower of the great Anglican Church chimed twelve, welcoming the New Year, welcoming 1785. Life in India had become something rather too routine for Tavington's tastes. What had originally seemed to be a simply commission, had proved uneventfully dull, it seemed as though nature would prove the more efficient assassin. Tavington peered out of the window of his small office in government house and watched as several carriages rattled by. The society elites in British India were on their way to New Year's parties. No doubt that Lord Cornwallis was among them.  
  
Tavington had never liked parties.  
  
The Grand High Green Dragoon dipped his quill in its inkwell and scratched a few more figures onto the ink stained paper. This was the sort of work that Lord Cornwallis had damned him to, that and several pointless battles with natives who posed no real threat and stood no chance of winning. He sighed. India was the equivalent of hell. Here, there was no need of battles to thin the ranks of men. Tavington had witnessed the deaths of nearly half of his dragoons. The causes were varied, but those variations were only the variations of the horrid native diseases. He had always regarded it as the least fair-playing of enemies. Faced with malaria or typhoid, what did skill matter?  
  
Cornwallis played his favorites beautifully. While the Green Dragoons stewed in the filthy streets of Calcutta, the Golden Dragoons were sent out to clear new territory of natives, to man the forts on the borders, and they were invited to the fashionable parties en masse.  
  
"And he seems to have forgotten about his obligation to kill me," Tavington mused, thinking for the first time in weeks about Victor in some other context than why the young duke wasn't dead yet.  
  
There was a quiet knock at the door to Tavington's office. The dragoon's hand went to the hilt of his saber.  
  
"Come in."  
  
The door creaked open. The blue jacket with its silver facings was all too familiar. The Frenchman was unchanged aside from the bit of color that the Indian sun had loaned to his skin.  
  
"Good evening, M. Talleyrand," Tavington said flatly, eyes turning back to the paper work.  
  
Talleyrand took a seat in one of the chairs facing Tavington's desk and smoothed the wrinkles in his overly ornamented jacket.  
  
"What do you want, Frenchman?"  
  
"I want Carrenworth's head," Talleyrand replied, calm and collected as ever. He took the liberty of pouring himself a brandy from the bottle on the desk. "You said six months, Col. Tavington. That six months has passed. Where is the head?"  
  
"You French are impatient," Tavington spat. "I'm not suicidal, Talleyrand. Carrenworth is surrounded by no less than five Golden Dragoons day and night. Not that I would have any difficulty killing them all, it's only that they are witnesses. What good is money and titles if you're going to be hung for murder?"  
  
Talleyrand's eyebrows contracted in frustration. "The King of France is prepared to offer you a full pardon!"  
  
"And that would mean living in France. Despite the fact that I have agreed to help you, Talleyrand, I detest your people and your bloody country. Besides, you haven't much longer to wait. Lord Carrenworth is mortally ill; he'll be dead before the month is out. I was hoping he wouldn't live to see the New Year."  
  
Talleyrand gripped the hilt of his own sword firmly, aware that the effects of his next statement could be explosive.  
  
"By the end of this month, either Carrenworth is dead, or you will be."  
  
Tavington smiled slyly. "Are you threatening me, Frenchman?"  
  
"I have no choice."  
  
"You truly are odd for a priest," Tavington mused.  
  
"Former priest," Talleyrand corrected. "Now, there is pressing business in France. I can stay until the end of the month at the longest. I want him dead by then!"  
  
"You have my word," Tavington replied.  
  
Talleyrand stood, and turning on his heel exited the room with the same exactitude with which he had entered. Tavington took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Who did this idiot Frenchman think he was toying with? Still, the Green Dragoon knew he had nothing to fear. He had watched with murderous fascination as Lord Carrenworth had slowly wasted away. During his first few months in India, the red-haired youth had ridden out with the rest of his Golden Dragoons to teach a bloody lesson to rebellious natives. He had attended all of the fashionable parties. Slowly, however, that had all changed.  
  
It wouldn't be long now, Tavington knew. He had bribed the doctor that was part of the Government House staff to keep him informed of his target's state of health. If, however, things were to prove difficult, Tavington had learned a thing or two about lending death a hand in his work. There was always opium.  
  
"Hard at work as always?"  
  
Tavington looked up. The entrance of his newest visitor had been unannounced, the trademark of Mooreville.  
  
"Blame Cornwallis," Tavington snapped.  
  
"You ought to attend one of the parties," Mooreville suggested. "It is six months since we arrived here and you have lived as though you were a veritable monk. You don't sleep, you haven't touched alcohol, and you've spoken no one. I only see you when I pass by this cave of an office. You're always at this desk. Hard at work copying the sacred texts, Brother William? Or is there something that troubles you?"  
  
"Cornwallis troubles me," Tavington answered. "The deaths of my dragoons trouble me. I ask you, Mooreville, what is there that doesn't?"  
  
"You have never been affected by such things," Mooreville said. He had known Tavington altogether too long. "Regardless, I came here to give you your latest orders."  
  
"Orders?" Tavington scoffed.  
  
"Yes, the Council of Elder Dragoons is to meet again, here in Calcutta, a week from now. Your presence is requested."  
  
Tavington sucked in a deep breath. Despite being one of the Grand High Dragoons, Tavington had never before been asked to show himself at one of the meetings of the council. In truth, he knew very little of the organization, only what Mooreville had told him, and he wasn't sure how fully he trusted Mooreville anymore. The Council was the governing body of all the orders of dragoons; they were above the limitations of nationality. There were the men who held to the true purpose, the preservation of the order.  
  
"What does the council want with me?" Tavington demanded to know.  
  
Mooreville shifted his weight to his flesh and bone leg. "I am not at liberty to say."  
  
"Not at liberty to say!" the Green Dragoon snarled. "You are the Green Dragoon representative on the Council! You can't send me to meet with them without this slightest idea of why!"  
  
"Before I am a Green Dragoon," Mooreville explained, "I sit on the council. My loyalty is first to the preservation of order, then to you."  
  
Having been the victim of it on several occasions, Tavington had developed a seething hatred for ignorance. He stared at Mooreville. Not one to pay much attention to appearances, he was suddenly struck by how very old Mooreville seemed. The skin seemed to have half melted from his bones; the once bright eyes were milky with age and years of worry. Mooreville looked old, very old, very tired.  
  
"The loss of the order of the Golden Dragoons," Tavington inferred.  
  
"I had not imagined I would live to see it," Mooreville said in his craggy voice. "The day one of the sacred orders would die, the rumors of the Bourbon monarchy being overthrown, the disloyalty of the Bordon family." The old man leaned against the doorway for emotional, as much as physical support. "Aye, it's like the very world is falling apart beneath us."  
  
Mooreville had a tendency to grow rather philosophical, a habit that increased in severity as the years past.  
  
"Perhaps I am growing a bit old for this," the doctor said wistfully. "Too many regrets."  
  
"You? Regrets?" Tavington inquired.  
  
Mooreville said nothing, he simply pulled a small booklet from his pocket and handed it to Tavington. It was a script for a theatrical production entitled: "The Lady Takes Charge."  
  
"Read it," the old man commanded, "at your earliest convenience. I think you'll find it rather interesting."  
  
He paused.  
  
"An order to come before the Council of Elder Dragoons is not to be taken lightly. Do you understand me, Tavington?"  
  
"Yes, I do."  
  
"Then I will let you return to your work, and whatever it is that troubles you."  
  
Mooreville took his leave of Tavington. The former physician had taken up residence in his parent's old home in Calcutta. It was a rather lengthy walk from Government House, but the British sections of the city were brightly lit and several of the more exciting New Year's parties had tumbled out into the streets. Therefore, Mooreville chose to walk instead of hiring a carriage. His pace was quick, despite his wooden leg. After several decades, it had become no different than the leg it replaced.  
  
As he walked, Mooreville's gaze swept over the throngs of party-goes. He wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for. He doubted he could spot a French conspirator without any prior idea of the man's appearance. Being the Council's spy, Mooreville was aware that a great deal of information was withheld from him; however, he was certain that their desire to meet with Tavington had something to do with the rumors that buzzed about the room concerning a "meddling Frenchman."  
  
Among the crowd, he noticed nearly every kind of person imaginable. There were natives, Britons, and varying mixtures of the two. There were ladies in new silk gowns and women of poor reputation in finery that was far too fine. He spotted beggars and thieves lurking in allies, none of whom dared to try his luck with an armed man in uniform, regardless of age.  
  
It was not until he found himself standing before the great Anglican Church that marked the beginning of White Town that Mooreville say anything of interest. Tied to the massive iron gates surrounding the church was a monstrous black horse. It was the largest Mooreville had ever seen, and it stared at any passersby as though it was waiting for an appropriate person to trample beneath is great iron clad hooves. Mooreville was well aware of who owned that particular mount.  
  
"Carrenworth," he mumbled to himself. 


	23. Transformations

The Legend: Book Two: Chapter Twenty-Three: "Transformation"  
  
Victor Alexander Carrenworth's head of fiery hair rested against the shoulder of Capt. Bordon. The Golden Dragoon and his now constant companion sat in silence. Victor had soon discovered, as Bordon had always known, that his newest dragoon was the sort of man who could live his life uttering as little as a single word once or twice a month. Victor, like Bordon, was a man of instinct.  
  
It was a tradition that the Council of Elder Dragoons always convened within the walls of a church. It was said that this tradition had begun with William the Green, but many, particularly those who opposed the Green's, claimed that it went much further back. The great Anglican Church of Calcutta was of the old style. Unlike the innumerable whitewashed homes and offices that filled the ever-expanding city, the church looked as though it had been plucked from English soil and deposited in India by nothing short of the Hand of God.  
  
Bordon shifted uncomfortably. The Council was gathered in a backroom of the church complex, unknown to many but the priests and others who had reason to be intimately familiar with the structure. A pew had been moved from the sanctuary to accommodate those who awaited an audience. It was far from comfortable and Bordon felt it in his battle-weary bones. Victor took no notice. He continued to stare heavenward, his formerly-piercing eyes veiled by heavy blue eyelids studded with long red eyelashes.  
  
"His last night on earth," Bordon thought.  
  
"And to think I am spending it waiting for an audience with The Council," the Grand High Golden Dragoon replied silently.  
  
One of the heavy double doors that lead to The Council's chamber creaked open. The lined face of the great church's old pastor peered out.  
  
"The Council will see you now," the whispered, dispensing with the titles and formalities that were due someone of the Duke's status.  
  
Bordon stood and helped his commanding officer to his feet.  
  
"How changed he his," Bordon mused. "In only six months, from the mighty golden dragon to this."  
  
The captain felt one of the gloved hands go limp.  
  
"Sir!" Bordon exclaimed, aloud, but only out of surprise.  
  
Carrenworth managed a few labored, yet deep breaths. He blinked, some glimmer returning to his icy eyes. The Golden Dragoon assumed his disturbingly graceful posture and twisted his blue lips into something resembling one of his old sarcastic smirks.  
  
"Good luck, Victor," Bordon said without speaking.  
  
As the Duke swept past the pries into The Council chamber, Bordon noticed that, for the first time in his professional career, Carrenworth was unarmed. Was he really so weak now? His right-hand man already knew the answer.  
  
Being the scions of an ancient association steeped in tradition, The Council would not meet unless they were seated around the council table. It was a great round table, every inch carved, molded, or otherwise ornamented in some ethereally detailed fashion. Victor did his best not to look at it. He had always felt a sense of revulsion toward this sacred piece of furniture. The top of the table was done in a meticulously designed inlay of six panels, one depicting ever sacred order of dragoons, every sacred order that is except for Golden. Having originated as a faction of the Green Dragoons, the Order of the Golden Dragoons was not held so highly as the original nine, and the Council had deemed it unnecessary to make any modification to the sacred council table. They deemed it far simpler to deny the Golden Dragoons a representative.  
  
There had been rumors, Victor knew, of making modification. to accommodate a proposed order of American Dragoons. However, there was still great debate among the council members as to whether an American Order would even qualify as sacred dragoons, after all, they had no monarchy to protect.  
  
Try as he might to focus upon the men sitting around it, Victor found his eyes drawn to the ever-disgusting panel depicting William the Green standing over a great green dragoon, the beast impaled upon a shining lance. There were five men seated, each before the panel depicting his respective order, the Red Dragoons of Russia, the Silver Dragoons of France, the Blue Dragoons of Prussia, the Purple Dragoons of Italy, the Orange (or Flaming Horse) Dragoons of Spain. There was a sixth chair, Mooreville's seat, which remained empty.  
  
At one time, the features of these five men had reflected their respective nationalities. Now, all well into their sixties, some over seventy, the only real distinguisher was the color of their extravagantly decorated uniforms. The jackets were in varying shades of red, blue, and green, all trimmed in gold, pinned with (collectively) well over one hundred medals and decorations. The representative of the Purple Dragoons wore a crown of golden leaves atop his wispy white hair, reminding all assembled that the Purple Dragoons where the oldest of the orders, tracing their founding to Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa and his praetorians. It was in honor of this heritage that all meetings of The Council were conducted in Latin.  
  
"The Great One comes before us at last," the representative of the Silver Dragoons, a serpentine old Frenchman, said with a sneer. His Latin was good, but thick with the accent of his country. It was forbidden for the names of the representatives to be known to anyone beyond member of their respective orders. As a result, Victor knew none of them. "A graduate of Oxford at sixteen, a trained lawyer, a brilliant tactician, fluent in six languages, and an undefeated sword master." again, the sneer, "I see now that the British exaggerate." He turned to his fellow council members, "I doubt this effeminate little weakling could even lift a sword!"  
  
The words had barely escaped the Frenchman's mouth when he felt the cold touch of a blade against his throat.  
  
"Stand down, Carrenworth!" the representative of the Red Dragoons bellowed, rising to his feet and his full, impressive Russian height. "Though the remarks of the Silver Dragoon were uncalled for, you are well aware that no weapons are permitted in a meeting of The Council." The Russian motioned for the priest, who was standing by the door nearly paralyzed with fear, to come forward. "Hand him the knife."  
  
Slowly, Victor lowered the gilded knife and handed it to the waiting clergyman.  
  
"You will apologize to the duke," the leave-crowned Purple Dragoon ordered, fixing the Frenchman with a menacing look of displeasure. "You ought to know that it is unwise to cause any further trouble. It is the activities of your order that have made this meeting necessary."  
  
The Silver Dragoon opened his mouth to apologize, but Victor was suddenly seized with an awful fit of coughing that racked his now-skeletal frame. Desperate to hide the extent of his infirmity, the Golden Dragoon held a scarlet handkerchief to his face to muffle coughs and desperate gasps for breath. There could be no weakness.  
  
"You are unwell," the Prussian Blue Dragoon stated. "Mooreville had told us something to that effect."  
  
"I am not unwell!" Victor snapped, regaining composure. "You should know that Mooreville is a Green Dragoon, and therefore determined to undermine me in any way possible, risking his own honor if necessary."  
  
The council members said nothing. It was overly obvious that Mooreville had spoken the truth concerning the Grand High Golden Dragoon's state of physical health.  
  
"Sit," the Purple Dragoon commanded, indicating a chair halfway between two panels.  
  
"I prefer standing."  
  
"Sit!" the dragoon repeated, with stronger emphasis.  
  
Victor did so.  
  
Despite the natural heat of the climate, there was a fire roaring away in a fireplace that had been built more for form than function, therefore it had never worked properly. This had filled the room with a smoke that softened shapes, and leant the whole place an ethereal quality. The Italian turned to the Frenchman.  
  
"It is your order that has caused such concern. You will explain the situation. You see, your grace, what plagues us is the new Grand High Silver Dragoon."  
  
"Talleyrand," Victor said quickly, remembering the hierarchy of French nobility. "What has he done?"  
  
"He has sided with the opposition to the Bourbon monarchy," the Frenchman explained. "We believe he impressed the King with a display of well-acted loyalty so that, for some reason, he would be sent to India. His real reasons for coming here are, as of know, unknown to us. It is the way of Talleyrand, he refuses to be only any side but that which is presently ahead. Or the side he has divined will come out on top."  
  
"Surely he knows that even if the Bourbons are removed from the throne it will be but for a brief period of time. The sacred order will abandon those who appose what they stand for, the will endure, and the monarchy will rise again," Victor snapped, unable to fathom that anyone would claimed to possess noble blood would support a revolution that threatened that very nobility.  
  
"That is where your nobility and your youth limit your vision," the Frenchman replied. "These revolutionaries are intellectuals, inspired by the triumph of the Americans. What they intend is a republican revolution, to make France something like America, the permanent destruction of the monarchy, the death of the House of Bourbon."  
  
Victor's eyes sparkled with blue fire.  
  
"That is madness! The experiment of the Americans will fail! Government by the common people is doomed to dissolve into chaos. It is the duty of the aristocracy, by virtue of their birth," he paused to catch his breath, "to protect the common people from themselves."  
  
"No one is more in agreement with you than the members of this council," the Purple dragoon replied calmly.  
  
A threat, or even an ideal, that attacked the authority of his precious nobility had struck a nerve somewhere deep within the young man. It was the Carrenworth legacy, the councilmen concluded. What was more precious than nobility secured through inborn superiority?  
  
"However, regardless of what course we would wish history to take, even our influence has limitations. Thus far, the Americans have done remarkably well for themselves. Now, imagine such a revolution with the backing of the Silver Dragoons, with the mind of Talleyrand!"  
  
The roomed was blanked by a silence that weighed heavily upon those gathered within.  
  
"You don't know Talleyrand. He was born a vile manipulative bastard, a snake in the trappings of a Frenchman. The serpent in the vestments of a clergyman! And trained by that witch Chalais! If he has decided to back the revolutionaries, then they will win."  
  
Like his distant cousin, discovering for the first time the internal dragoon divisions, Victor Alexander Carrenworth was burdened by the sudden lifting of his protective veil of ignorance. Indeed, it had been bliss.  
  
"The situation grows even more desperate," the elder Silver Dragoon continued. "Talleyrand has entered into some form of deal with Tavington."  
  
"Tavington!" Victor choked.  
  
"Yes, Tavington! We believe that he has proposed an alliance."  
  
"I would sooner see Tavington dead than anyone," Victor sneered, "but he is loyal."  
  
"Any man who lacks a title and financial security is prone to republican sympathies," the Russian Red Dragoon said bluntly.  
  
"As you are well aware, throughout the centuries, the Green Dragoons have caused us nothing save trouble," the Italian said. "William the Green's desire to command the council, coupled with his mania, nearly destroyed us. As the years go by one Tavington replaces another, each more bloodthirsty than the last. This current one and that sniveling, spying Mooreville cannot be trusted. I smell the foul odor of this coming French Revolution about them. The Green's have abandoned the old ideals of the order in favor of personal glory and the accumulation of wealth. The name of Tavington no longer ranks among the nobility. Men will never fight to defend those they envy, they will fight for equality."  
  
The five councilmen leaned in closer, the air so thick with smoke and silence that it could shatter a blade. They examined the young man seated before them. There was a great chance he would die before their plan was carried out, but there was something in those crystal-blue eyes that said protested that conclusion. There were options. The die was cast.  
  
"It is time this council made a decision it should have made in the days of Cromwell," they said collectively. "It is time that green became gold." 


	24. The End of the Beginning

Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter 24: "The End of the Beginning"  
  
"It has all worked out perfectly, Talleyrand," Victor Alexander Carrenworth said with a characteristically twisted smile, staring out into the Indian night rather than at the man he spoke to. "You played your part to perfection. The Council of Elder Dragoons believes that you are a dangerous conspirator against monarchy in Europe and that you have persuaded Tavington to join your little crusade."  
  
Talleyrand took a sip from his glass of wine, and replied with barely disguised delight, "You mean?"  
  
"Yes." Carrenworth spun around and held up one of his golden daggers. "The Council has given me the order to kill Tavington."  
  
Talleyrand smiled. "So, our plan finally comes to fruition. Not that I ever doubted it would. Now, once Tavington is dead and you are successfully installed on the throne of France."  
  
"I am obligated to honor my end of the bargain," said the Golden dragoon quickly, finishing the sentence so that the Frenchman need not trouble himself with it. "As you know, I quite conveniently did away with your older brother. Tavington saw to that. All that is required are some signatures on various assorted documents, Duke de Talleyrand."  
  
"And the laws of inheritance and succession?" Talleyrand reminded his partner in underhanded doings.  
  
"Of course." Victor coughed, then noticing Talleyrand's concerned look, quickly snapped, "I'm fine!"  
  
Victor turned back to the window. Stars sparkled brightly against a black velvet sky. The noise of carriages and far-off conversations floated through the saffron-scented air. He felt oddly at peace.  
  
He had first met Talleyrand at the court of Versailles during his family- imposed exile. Victor had been ambitious. Talleyrand had been angry with the hand fate had dealt him. Both were dissatisfied with their positions in the grand scheme of things. In a way, they had been made for each other.  
  
The grand plot had been many years in the making. What began as a simple attempt to reinstate Talleyrand as his parent's heir had been expanded to include the destruction of the Green Dragoons. It didn't stop there, of course, as each fed off the other. However, the rumors of revolution in France had elevated the scheme to a new level. If there was one thing Talleyrand believed in, it was peace and prosperity for the country that, beneath his exterior, he was deeply dedicated to. If there was one thing Victor believed in, it was the aristocratic ethic.  
  
They agreed upon a very central point, that the destruction of the monarchy in France was to be avoided at all costs. The last thing the world needed was another revolution.  
  
"Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette are doomed," Talleyrand, who possessed an eerie ability to predict such things with surprising accuracy, had explained. "The best we can do it to replace them with another monarchy, not a fanatical tyrant or one of these doomed experimental democracies."  
  
"First we must do away with the Green Dragoons," Victor had reminded his friend. "As long at Tavington lives he is a threat."  
  
The Frenchman had agreed.  
  
"And now we stand on the brink of success," Victor whispered. "There are only two obstacles standing in our way that are both soon to be eliminated, Tavington and Louis XVI. Finally, things will be as they should."  
  
Talleyrand poured another glass of wine and offered it to Victor.  
  
"To things being as they should, my dear friend."  
  
* * *  
  
Dr. Mooreville did his best to control his emotions as he explained the plot to Tavington. He had followed Carrenworth after his meeting with the council. He found it odd that the elders had not informed him that they intended to meet with the head of the Golden Dragoons. So, he had followed, and from a position underneath one of the windows of Talleyrand's temporary Calcutta home, had been privy to the truth.  
  
The head of the Green Dragoons listened, seeming unaffected, until Mooreville was finished. Then he stood and unsheathed his saber. Tavington had a great capacity for anger. Now he was thoroughly angry. He had been misled, fooled, tricked, and the mixture of self-loathing and pure hatred for Talleyrand and Carrenworth twisted itself into a blinding rage incapable of control.  
  
Tavington barely heard Mooreville as he continued on about the disastrous consequences of Carrenworth assuming the throne of France and the destruction of the Green Dragoons. Carrenworth had tricked him, Carrenworth had brainwashed Bordon, Carrenworth was evil, and only when Carrenworth and his vile French associate were dead would he be satisfied.  
  
His saber gripped firmly in one hand, Tavington rushed out of Government House to extract his revenge, Mooreville shouting precautions in his wake.  
  
* * *  
  
The Grand High Green Dragoon burst into the room, Mooreville several steps behind.  
  
"Why, Gen. Tavington, what brings you here?" Victor Carrenworth inquired, though he suspected he already knew the answer.  
  
"Tonight you die," Tavington hissed between clenched teeth. "Dr. Mooreville overheard your little discussion."  
  
Victor was a bit better at controlling his anger than Tavington, though he cursed his own stupidity at allowing himself to be overheard.  
  
"Very well, Gen. Tavington," Victor said with a forced smile. "Then I suppose I should thank you for saving me the trouble of killing you in the same way that my father did away with your grandfather. You have done me the favor of presenting yourself for execution."  
  
Victor drew his rapier.  
  
The battle was joined instantly, Tavington coming at his foe with forceful slices that were neatly sidestepped or parried. Victor could play the defensive game. Parrying the nearly incessant slashes, the Golden Dragoon waited for an opening. Typical of someone used to fighting others also armed with sabers Tavington had a tendency toward wide slices.  
  
After several minutes, Victor saw his opening. Tavington was oblivious to the pain. The rapier point piercing his arm did little more than assure him that his intent to kill Carrenworth was justified.  
  
Tavington made another swing as Victor freed his weapon from the Green Dragoon's flesh and jacket. Both retreated. Tavington taking a quick glance at the slight wound in his arm, Victor staring in horror as blood gushed from the deep gash across the back of his hand and trickled down the blade of his rapier as though it were some kind of steel vein.  
  
Tavington raised his saber and made another advance. Victor flicked his wrist and felt the dagger concealed in his sleeve drop into his hand. He ducked beneath Tavington's swing and drove the dagger, backhand, into his sworn enemy's side.  
  
Tavington doubled over as the dagger punctured his right lung. Satisfied that the Green Dragoon was defeated, Victor turned his attentions to the informant.  
  
"Very clever, Doctor Mooreville, but I'm afraid that you've lost."  
  
The doctor aimed his loaded flintlock. It wasn't necessary. Tavington tightened his grip on his saber, orange flames licked at the blade. The curved metal point found its way between Victor's ribs. The young nobleman went limp as Tavington withdrew his sword and turned to face his next opponent.  
  
The Frenchman, a dedicated survivalist, was long gone.  
  
~Fin  
  
Author's Ending Notes:  
  
Despite the good-intentioned (though slightly selfish) plans of Carrenworth and Talleyrand the French Revolution occurred and toppled the monarchy in France. This was followed by the reign of Napoleon Bonaparte.  
  
The hereditary orders of dragoons saw their final death when industrialization, modern warfare tactics, and automatic weapons rendered their use in combat unnecessary by the beginning of WWI.  
  
William Tavington returned to England shortly after the incident in Talleyrand's Calcutta house in January of 1785. There he assumed the title Duke of Fairenvail and integrated the legions of green and golden dragoons. He never married and finding the life of a wealthy nobleman not suited to his peculiar tastes, continued to serve the crown in his capacity as Grand High Green Dragoon. His final battle was at Waterloo in 1815. He died shortly afterward at the age of 71.  
  
Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord returned to France where he left his mark on many a governmental regime, specifically Napoleon's. He relinquished his position as Grand High Silver Dragoon in 1786 to one of his cousins, to dedicate himself to his true calling, politics.  
  
Dr. Mooreville remained with Tavington and the Green Dragoons until his death in 1790. He is buried beside his old friend, William XI.  
  
There are many rumors surrounding the ultimate fate of Victor Alexander Carrenworth VI. The most likely, and most widely believed, theory is that he did indeed perish in his duel with Tavington on New Year's Day 1785. However, there are those who claim that he lived and lost not only his position in society but his sanity as well and spent his remaining days locked away in an insane asylum somewhere in the French countryside. Still others claim he returned to France where he saved Marie Antoinette from certain death at the guillotine by substituting his own sister, Anna. The two of them then lived out their remaining days in Austria. It has also been suggested that Tsar Alexander II of Russia was really Carrenworth. A final theory suggests something about the name Satine and the Moulin Rouge, though no one has ever been able to uncover any details.  
  
---  
  
At long last, I have completed this story! I know that this last chapter might seem a bit rushed. It is the second version of the last chapter though since the disc the first version was on corrupted.  
  
This will be the final version of this story except for some chapter re- naming, the fixing of some minor spelling mistakes, and the possible polishing up of the final chapter. 


End file.
